


The Promise of the World

by pilindiel



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle, Angst, Drama, Fantasy, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 06:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8612644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilindiel/pseuds/pilindiel
Summary: When a self-conscious young man is cursed with an old body by a spiteful wizard, his only chance of breaking the spell lies with a self-indulgent yet insecure young wizard and his companions in his legged, walking castle.The Howl's Moving Castle AU we all secretly wanted.





	1. In Which Yuuri Meets the Wizard

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on 11/17/2016.
> 
> Enjoy!

There’s something endearingly simple about the walk to the bakery.  The smoke and blaring sounds from the train accompany the hum of the crowds easily, and Yuuri walks with quiet purpose.  He hates that there’s a festival going on.  Normally, the square is quiet, a gentle thrum of people who sit in cafes, wave hello to friends and enjoy the warm, spring air.  But it’s buzzing today, and Yuuri curses his bad luck.  He avoids eye contact, keeps his gaze trained on the letter in his hand and lets his feet carry him further and further from the comfort of his hat shop.  He pushes his glasses further up his nose and straightens his modest green shirt, shoving Mari’s letter into his dark gray trousers.

The square is busy, suffocating, but Yuuri hops on the tram all the same, the metal of the floor a comforting anchor amongst the noise.  He breathes a sigh when the tram moves, gripping tightly to the metal handle at his side.  Simple things are always his biggest comfort, and his life is exceedingly simple.

The screeching of metal jolts him from his thoughts and he steps down at his stop, trying not to grimace. Tables, balloons, and streamers encompass the square and he sighs as a loud, orchestral waltz blares from their make-shift stage.  Better to go down one of the alleyways: the last thing Yuuri wants is to get swept up in the bustling celebration.  Plus, he doesn’t much feel like dealing with people today.

He turns down a narrow street and notes how the light catches the tops of the windows and little else.  The sharp clip of his heels accompanies him as the celebrations fade in the distance, feeling a little lighter with the solitude.  He watches, bemused, as a chubby gray and white cat yawns lazily on a window sill, stretching before it rolls over and basks in the waning sun.

Yuuri smiles then turns just in time to catch himself from stepping on a pair of well-polished boots.

Two soldiers tower over him, uniforms crisp and cleaned, unlike the ones who usually linger the boarders of Market Chipping.  They are each at least half a foot taller than him, one red-headed and the other brunet, and Yuuri feels the sudden urge to hide himself from their lingering eyes.  The brunet has a surprisingly well-kept mustache and he leans closer, as if to inspect Yuuri more intently.

Yuuri sucks in a breath, smile gone, and brings a hand up to his chest as if to stave off the sharp beating of his heart.

“Hey, looks like a little mouse has lost it’s way,” the red-head says with a far too toothy grin.

“Oh no,” Yuuri insists, forcing a laugh, “I’m not lost.”  His protest falls on deaf ears and Yuuri steps back, feeling exposed.

“He’s pretty cute for a mouse,” the soldier on the right decides, eyes slowly scanning Yuuri down to his shoes.  The hatter shivers.

“How old are you anyway?” The man with a mustache asks, taking a step closer, “Do you live around here?”

Yuuri’s heart pounds in his ears and he instinctively balls his fists at his sides.  “Leave me alone!” he snaps, though the threat is considerably weakened by his wavering voice.   _ **Dammit**_.

The red-head whistles low, looking over at his partner with a far too uncomfortable glint in his eye. Yuuri’s blood pumps cold.  “I told you.  Your mustache scares everyone.”

The brunet laughs heartily and Yuuri feels his chest tighten.  “So?  I think he’s even cuter when he’s scared.”

Yuuri steps back again, hesitantly, when a large, calming hand cups his shoulder.  He immediately jumps, heart racing, but the owner stays still, holding Yuuri close to his chest protectively.  Yuuri looks up in a panic.  The man has beautiful blond hair, parted on the side to partially hide one of his striking, icy blue eyes.  He’s warm, comfortingly warm, and Yuuri is struck with the faint smell of lilacs.

He’s handsome, terribly handsome, and sharply dressed with a colorful jacket strewn over one shoulder. Yuuri feels like he’s standing next to a statue – picturesque elegance and grace.

“There you are, sweetheart,” he says, voice deep and soothing.  He looks down and his eyes strike down to Yuuri’s heart.  “I was looking everywhere for you.”

“Hey, we’re busy here!” One of the soldier’s barks.  Yuuri flinches, soothed only by a gentle squeeze to his shoulder.

“Are you really?” the stranger asks, smiling lithely.  “It looked to me like the two of you were just leaving.”  He raises his free hand, still holding Yuuri close with the other, and flicks his wrist, pointer finger out. Immediately the two soldiers stand at attention, sucking in gasps, and with a wave of his hand they mechanically stomp down the street and out into the square, protests fading into the hum of the crowd.

Yuuri watches them in awe, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. He’s flabbergasted, and it must show on his face because the stranger chuckles softly, making heat crawl up Yuuri’s neck.

“Where to?” he asks, and Yuuri loses his train of thought from how sincere and honest his smile is, “I’ll be your escort this evening.”

Yuuri swallows and tries to remember how to breathe.  He re-situates his glasses.  “Oh, I’m uh..I’m just going to the bakery.”

The man smiles again and Yuuri’s brain takes a moment to catch up as the stranger offers his arm.  “Don’t get alarmed, but I’m being followed,” he says, as if speaking of the weather, “Act normal.”

There’s a moment where Yuuri realizes he could refuse, he could turn away, come back to Mari’s bakery later.  She can wait a day, surely?  He could walk back to his small hat shop, walk back to his simple life, walk away from whatever trouble this may bring.  Walk away from whatever this stranger is offering him.

Yuuri takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and grabs the wizard’s arm.  The smile he receives is blindingly bright and Yuuri’s heart skips a beat.

They walk slowly, leisurely, and Yuuri has never been more conscious of the tapping of his shoes on these cobbled streets.  He’s never had anyone to match strides with, but the wizard doesn’t seem to pay his light stumbling any mind.

It’s only after a few minutes that he starts to hear the rumble.  At first, Yuuri thought it was the gentle, distant lull of the celebration in the square, but this is much lower, more sonorous.  It’s darker, heavier, and it’s _ **gaining**_ on them.

The wizard picks up their pace and Yuuri desperately tries to match it, heart sinking into his stomach. _**What have you gotten yourself into, Yuuri Katsuki?**_

“Sorry,” the stranger says with a placating smile, “Looks like you’re involved.”  Yuuri feels his hands shake on the wizard’s arm, grip tightening as the rumbling behind them grows louder, grows _**closer**_.

Yuuri almost hazards a look behind them but he doesn’t have to – suddenly the sounds are all around and Yuuri feels like he’s suffocating from it.  The growling sounds esoteric, deep and ancient, and Yuuri’s eyes go wide as he sees a fully black creature, almost humanoid, seep up from the stones at the next cross street.  It grows in shape, towering above the windows, and is joined by several more.

He wants to scream, but all that comes out is a strangled gasp as the wizard jerks them down a side-street, the rumbling a cacophonous, deafening symphony.  Yuuri’s heart pounds in his ears, but he feels the stranger lean forward, wrapping a strong arm around Yuuri’s waist as he whispers in that low, rich, calming voice, “ _Hold on.”_

And they jump.

The clay gabled roofs slip past their feet and Yuuri feels weightless as they soar.  His back is pressed into the stranger’s warm chest and he feels his heart pound, head spinning.  The arm around his waist slips away, but the wizard threads their fingers together instead and the tenderness makes Yuuri’s chest tight.  

“Now,” the blond haired man’s voice resonates through Yuuri’s body, deep and calming, “Straighten your legs and start walking.”

Yuuri shakes as he extends his legs, but the wizard’s warm fingers tighten their grip and Yuuri feels lightheaded from the sudden change in perspective.  

They walk on nothing but move forward all the same, feet stepping on air.  Yuuri’s breathing is ragged as he looks down at the people below them, the red clay roofs sweeping by.  Yuuri feels light, and not just because of the sudden altitude. There’s something about the wizard at his back, something about the way he can feel him breathe against him and feel his fingers hold him, firm but gentle.  The city passes them by below and Yuuri feels the swell of the music match the rapid beating of his heart.

It feels like they’re dancing, Yuuri realizes, with the tight hold the wizard has on him and the way his heart is fluttering.  Yuuri laughs, light and airy and feeling oh so free, and his cheeks burn when he hears the stranger match him.  

“You are a natural,” he hears the wizard say and Yuuri smiles softly, reflectively.  They step on the top of a spire and linger for a moment, the cool metal in stark contrast to the warmth radiating through him.  Yuuri can feel those bright blue eyes on him and, in a fit of boldness, turns his head slightly to meet them.  The mirth, the calm serenity and peace he sees on the wizard’s face makes his heart pound loudly in his ears, the orchestra just below them feeling far, far away.

He’s never felt so at peace.

The wizard’s look softens and Yuuri can’t stop the pattering of his heart.  There’s something in that gaze, a longing he’s not used to, a tenderness, and Yuuri can’t tear himself away.  The stranger lets go of one of Yuuri’s hands, twirling him on the tip of the spire.  Yuuri does a perfect pirouette, one of the wizard’s hands holding the hand he extends to the heavens. Flushed, Yuuri looks over at the stranger and the endearing gaze he receives in exchange is so gentle it leaves Yuuri feeling winded.

He’s not sure how long they stay up there enjoying the mild afternoon air, but it feels far too short. Yuuri doesn’t even remember making their way across the square to the bakery, but in moments he’s floating down onto the balcony, the sweet, sugary scent of pastries wafting through the open door behind him.

Yuuri’s feet touch solid wood, but if the wizard ever let go of his hands, he’s certain he would float away or melt straight through the floor.  He’s still weightless, and he’s not sure it will ever stop.

He’s not sure he wants it to.

“I’ll make sure to draw them off, but wait a minute before you head outside,” the wizard says as he stands on the railing, fingers slipping out of Yuuri’s searching hands.

Yuuri nods, or at least he hopes he does.  He can’t seem to wipe the dazed smile off his face.  “Okay,” he replies breathlessly.

The wizard smiles again, endlessly blue eyes sparkling.  He whispers something Yuuri can’t quite hear, but with a flourish of his arm he steps off the railing and falls, his beautiful jacket fluttering as he disappears.

Yuuri gasps and runs to the edge, but there is no sign of him – no footprints, no retreating figure, no gasps from the oblivious crowd – just the patter of Yuuri’s heart and the faint, but pretty smell of lilacs.


	2. In Which Yuuri Enters the Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don't know how I kept going. You just do. You have to, so you do.”  
> ― Elizabeth Wein, Code Name Verity

When Yuuri thinks “castle”, this is not what he pictures. It's dark, for one, with dust settled comfortably over every surface. There's a stale, musty smell to the room he enters and the stained stairs creek as he drags himself slowly up the steps. Luckily it's warmer than the torrent of wind and rain outside and he welcomes that part, at least.

Stepping over the precipice of the top step, he feels a little overwhelmed. The high ceiling does nothing to hide the clutter everywhere else. The table farthest from him is covered with books. Papers are strewn over the hard, ornately designed wood, and Yuuri can't help the way his nose crinkles. It looks like there's leftover _**food**_ on the table as well. He tries not to think too much about the smell burning in his nose and lets his eyes wander.

_**How does anyone actually live here?**_ He wonders, staring disdainfully at the grime covered window. Everything feels untidy and claustrophobic and Yuuri makes a face at the pile of dishes in what he assumes is the sink in the corner.

Overall, the place looks like a dump.

The sole source of light in the room is a gently cracking fire, nestled comfortably in a huge, ostentatious fire-pit. It, like everything else, is covered with ash and dust with the back of it stained black, charred by countless unchecked flames.

But Yuuri's muscles ache, and his legs creak as he takes everything in. Part of him wonders if it's worth it to go back out and brave the wastes, but he's still freezing from the wind, and he's exhausted. Worn out. Yesterday, he would have been more than happy to wander through the wastes and suffer through the storm and rolling hills, but this Yuuri is ragged, hunched over, _**old**_. It's still hard for him to wrap his head around, that he's not twenty-two anymore. That he creaks like this old, broken-down castle and that the wind blows through him like through the holes in the rafters.

That he's been cursed by a vengeful, petty wizard and his only hope is to find someone more powerful to reverse it.

His throat feels tight and he wipes his sweating hands on his black, ill-fitting trousers.

There's a stray chair, illuminated by the soft glow of the fire, and Yuuri settles into it, sighing as the warmth of the flames lick him dry and seep into his bones. Gently, he pushes he glasses up the bridge of his nose and lets his mind wander, watching the soft crackle of the fire. The chair is hard against his spine, but it's better than nothing, and he lets himself lean back, breathing slowly through his nose.

The fire is cozy and Yuuri finds himself getting lost in the glitter of the light, shapes forming and breaking in the twinkling embers.

He can almost see a pair of eyes staring back at him through the flickering light – deep set hazel eyes winking at him through a flurry of orange and yellow. He can almost see a mouth too, resting easily on the edge of a pile of ash and a charred plank of wood.

“That's a nasty curse you have there,” it says, nearly smirking, “Curses are tough. You'll have a rough time getting rid of that one, dear.”

Yuuri practically chokes, eyes wide, and leans back so sharply the wood of the chair pokes knots into his back. He's quite certain his heart stops.

“The fire spoke...!” he breathes, clutching the gnarled arms of the chair tightly. The fire swirls slightly, as if trying to get a better look at him, and Yuuri can't stop staring.

Maybe this is all part of the spell on him. Maybe this is just another facet of the castle. A trick of the light or Yuuri's overactive imagination. Maybe he's truly gone mad.

“Allow me to guess,” the fire purrs, and Yuuri watches in terrified awe as a small, flaming appendage sprouts out so the creature can rest its head on its palm, “You can't talk about it, can you?” Magic is not really something Yuuri has ever been accustomed to – simple things, little conjurings and slight-of-hands at carnivals and the like are the closest he's gotten to _real_ magic.

He numbly supposes his encounter with that handsome, strange wizard threw that to the wayside.

He swallows, trying to ease the pounding in his ears. He tries to remind himself that this is _**Victor's**_ castle, that Victor only eats the hearts of beautiful people. Yuuri never considered himself much of anything important, beautiful or otherwise, even on the best of days. He stayed in his hat shop, worked alongside sweet Guang-Hong and his friends, never stepped out of line, never did anything unexpected or exciting. He did what he was supposed to, filled the role that needed filling. Did what was needed of him. But then that wizard found him, rescued him, spoke to him like he was _**something**_ , like he was beautiful and wanted and _**important**_. That his existence had weight outside the walls of their small town.

But then that stranger disappeared, and darker, more malicious magic interrupted Yuuri's simple life and his simple shop. The man who broke apart his store, who sneered at Yuuri's work and Yuuri's life and made certain Yuuri wouldn't be important.

That Yuuri wouldn't be worth anything to anyone again.

He blinks, watching the soft, almost gentle movements of the fire, and ventures a guess.

“Are you Victor?” he asks timidly, trying to ease himself back into a more comfortable position.

The fire scoffs, literally _**scoffs**_ , and shoots sparks into the air. “No,” it replies with a flourish, “Can't you tell? I'm a fire demon.” Those entrancing hazel eyes almost seem to smile and Yuuri feels some of his tension melt away. “My name is Christophe.”

“A fire demon...” Yuuri murmurs, mulling the thought over. He glances down and rubs his knobbly knuckles on his pants. Brow furrowing, he chews the inside of his cheek, feeling the weight of his fingers. He's so exhausted. Was he ever this tired before? “Then you should be able to break my curse, right?”

Christophe is silent for a moment before he sighs. Yuuri looks up and Christophe has that subtle smirk again eyes alight. “Perhaps. If you can break the spell that's on me, then I'll gladly break the spell that's on you,” he says and Yuuri can almost see the way the flames twitch to make Christophe's smile wider. “Got it?”

Yuuri leans back, feeling peace settle back into his bones. “If you're a demon, how do I know I can trust you?” he asks, crossing his arms and giving Christophe a fixed stare. “Do you promise to help me if I help you?”

The fire considers the proposition over for a moment and purposefully avoids Yuuri's sharp gaze. “Demons don't make promises,” he counters snootily.

Yuuri rolls his eyes before stretching into a yawn, ignoring the way his shoulders groan at the un-welcomed movement. “Then go find someone else.”

That sends Christophe into a frenzy and he splutters, sparks flying into the stale air. “Come on you _**must**_ feel sorry for me!” he cries petulantly, tiny appendages flailing, “That spell keeps me locked up in this castle and Victor treats me like his personal _**slave**_. You have keep the water hot, the rooms warm, the castle moving - !”

Yuuri yawns once more, eyelids heavy as Christophe drones on. “Sounds rough,” he mutters, feeling distant. It wouldn't hurt to rest his eyes for a moment, would it?

The fire seems to to a simmer and Christophe lets out a sigh. Yuuri catches the tail end of his rant, toes curling as warmth envelopes him. The silence lasts long enough for Yuuri to drift off, but in the distance he hears the gentle purr of Christophe's words. “Look, if you can figure out how to break my deal with dear Victor, than I can easily break the spell on you.”

Yuuri hums quietly, shifting. “Alright,” he murmurs, “It's a deal.”

Whatever Christophe says next is lost to the night, covered by Yuuri's soft, contented snoring.

* * *

 

But sleep never lasts as long as it should.

Loud knocking on solid oak stirs Yuuri far too early. He feels stiff as he tries to sit up and curses quietly under his breath at the protest in his muscles and back. His vertebrae crack loudly and he groans, trying to soothingly rub his neck with a shriveled hand.

It's only now that he realizes this is the second morning he's had like this – where his body complains at every movement, where he can't quite wrap his head around being _**this**_ old. He wonders, briefly, how old he actually is now. Seventy? Sixty? He's not sure, but his body's sluggish morning routine makes him feel like he's over a thousand.

Maybe he shouldn't have slept in a wooden chair all night.

The pounding persists and Yuuri debates over standing to answer it, but the padding of feet on the floorboards upstairs startles him and he panics, immediately throwing his head back to pretend to sleep once more. The chair and his muscles creak in unison, but he manages the facade as a child, no older than six, rushes down the stairs.

“Porthaven door,” Christophe calls listlessly.

There's the sounds of mild shuffling, and then a deeply forced: “Standby.”

The door opens and Yuuri is stirred by the sounds of... _ **seagulls?**_ His brow furrows as a salty breeze tousles his wispy bangs and he sits up, watching as the light through the window dances off the calm and distant glimmer of the ocean.

The child, he realizes, is glaring at him. His bushy beard is long and goes past his knobby knees and he nearly trips on it as he stomps up the stairs with resound purpose. With a huff, he shoves his hood off to reveal platinum blonde hair and striking icy-blue eyes. He crosses his arms and tries to stare Yuuri down.

Quite the feat, considering he's about a third of Yuuri's size and twice as thin. There's still the pudge of baby fat in his cheeks and it makes his frown considerably less severe.

“And what do you think you're doing here, grandpa?” he snaps, pouting in frustration. Yuuri smiles a little, sitting up to stoke the fire.

“Christophe said I could come in,” he replies easily, tossing another log on the pit.

Christophe, however, looks affronted. “I did _**not**_ ,” he says, positively scandalized, “He wandered in from the wastes!”

“He's from the wastes?” the child repeats in quiet awe, looking between Yuuri and the twinkling fire, “How do we know he's not a wizard?”

Christophe practically rolls over himself in the fireplace. “Do you really think I'd let _**another**_ wizard in here?”

Before anyone can comment there is another knock on the front door, reverberating deeply through the house. The knocking causes some dust to fly down from the rafters and Yuuri tries not to cringe as it flutters down, landing delicately on his discarded hat. How do a child and an all powerful wizard not know how to clean up after themselves?

“It's the Kingsbury door,” Christophe answers idly, and the child pulls his hood back over his head, the beard re-materializing without so much as a flourish.

“Standby!” he calls in his horridly fake voice. He twists a nob above the door handle and Yuuri watches in surprise as the wheel hanging on the wall twirls to a startling red.

The door swings open and Yuuri is confronted with the bustle of a city, cacophonies of car horns and airships greeting him as he meets the child on the stairs. He barely catches what's being said – something about a summons and the word Pendragon, but everything else is drowned by the colourful sights and the rusty smell of the city.

“I will inform him right away,” the boy replies gruffly, stomping back up the stairs with a showily decorated envelope.

Yuuri, on the other hand, steps outside and is greeted by musty but cool air and blinding colors. He takes careful note of the flags waving overhead, the distant swell of a symphony. “This is the royal city, isn't it?” he gasps, blinking owlishly at his surroundings.

“Move it grandpa, or you'll lose your nose!” the child snaps before unceremoniously plodding back up the short flight of stairs.

Yuuri, however, hovers by the closed door, staring at the dial. The door itself looks heavy now that he can see it in the light, and the iron plating on the sides clash with the ornate brass handle. The lever itself is curved with beautiful flower indents, but it's the knob above it that catches Yuuri's attention. He feels almost giddy, looking down at the shining brass – out of everything in this home, the knob with its inlaid stock flowers and lilacs is the only thing still clean and sparkling. A little window above it mirrors the colors on the wheel mounted on the wall and Yuuri takes a moment to appreciate the delicateness of it.

He takes a breath, smiling a little to himself, and grabs the dial, turning it until it blinks green. With a resounding shove he pushes the door open and is greeted by frigid, humid air. With a surprised hum he steps onto the front step, looking out at the misting, rolling hills of the wastes. He inhales deeply, sucking damp air into his stifled lungs and breathes out, feeling the rain drizzle lightly on his warm skin.

He smiles a little more, feeling excitement tingle between his fingers. He steps back inside and closes the door and this time doesn't hesitate to turn the knob til it pulses blue.

The cry of seagulls and the honking of boats meet him as the door swings open and Yuuri is blown away by the sudden shift in atmosphere. The sun is so bright it's blinding, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. He marvels at the change in atmosphere – the warm sea breeze, the comfortable hum of a morning market, the way the air feels thick with salt and the smell of fish. It's intoxicating. It's exhilarating. And it's all at his fingertips, transported through shining brass and heavy oak.

He shakes his head, hardly believing it. Yuuri closes the door once more, hoping to explore further, but the little boy's sharp voice catches him off guard and he slams the door shut in surprise.

“Leave it alone, grandpa,” he scolds, “I'm getting angry.”

Yuuri can't hide the way his eyes shine. “This is a magic house, isn't it?” he asks, absolutely elated.

The child puffs at him crossly, and that's all the answer Yuuri needs. “So tell me,” he wonders, “Where does the black one lead?” The child rolls his eyes and walks towards the dining room table, waving his hand flippantly.

“Only master Victor knows that,” he responds with impertinence. He rummages for a moment at the table, absentmindedly pushing papers away before he pulls a drawer open. Yuuri feels his stomach drop when he sees the child's nimble fingers wrap around a roll of bread and some cheese that _**definitely should not have been in a drawer**_.

_**Who is taking care of this child?!** _

Yuuri shrieks out before he can stop himself. “Wouldn't you rather have something more substantial?” he asks hurriedly, hobbling over. He catches a flash of white and breathes an internal sigh of relief. “Like maybe some bacon and eggs?”

The child scoffs and angrily takes a bite from his bread. “Yeah but we can't use the fire,” he says between chews. Yuuri flinches as crumbs fly from his mouth. “Master Victor's not here.”

There's a moment where Yuuri wonders if this is really worth fighting for. If it's really worth it to force a demon to do his bidding for the sake of a breakfast. But then he sees green and fuzz on the side of the boy's cheese and his stomach twists. With new-found confidence, Yuuri takes the basket of eggs and the covered plate of bacon, toddling over to the fire. “That's alright,” he says, shooting a placating smile over his shoulder, “I can cook.”

Gently, he sets the basket and plate down at the stone, ash covered edge of the fire-pit, taking in the absolutely shocked looks of his two companions. He scans the walls and finds a relatively clean pan hanging on the wall. The cast iron is heavy, but the grit on the handle grounds him and Yuuri rolls his sleeves up to the elbow.

The child, mesmerized up to this point, shakes his head. “It doesn't matter if you can _**cook**_ ,” he says, maintaining his obstinance, “Christophe only obeys Master Victor.” Yuuri turns and fixes the fire with an absolutely determined stare.

If Christophe had feathers, they would be absolutely _**ruffled**_. “How dare you, _**sir**_ ,” he scolds testily, “I am a robust, fearsome, _**terrifying**_ fire-demon!” He sniffs defiantly, swirling eyes of fire narrowing. “I. Do. _**Not**_. Cook.”

“How would you like a bucket of cold water on your face?” Yuuri retorts, unflinchingly. The sparks of nerves that fly around them only fuel Yuuri's internal flames. He leans closer and he revels as Christophe leans back. “Or maybe I should tell Victor about our little bargain?”

Christophe's mouth drops open in surprise, looking positively offended as his body crackles and snaps against the wood. “Oh, _**stupid**_ me. I never should have let you in here!”

Fearlessly, Yuuri slams the cast iron pan down, mushing Christophe's humiliated face into the stone and kindling. With a smirk, Yuuri slides a piece of bacon into the pan, watching it sizzle and pop. He pushes it idly with a long wooden spoon, letting it simmer in its own grease. “That's a good fire,” he whispers soothingly.

“Here's another curse,” Christophe mutters, “May all your bacon burn.”

Yuuri cocks an eyebrow and he can almost see Christophe shrink beneath his gaze. He bites his lower lip and tries not to laugh. Maybe being vindictive comes with old age. “I think I'd like some tea too,” he says absentmindedly, turning to the child once more, “Do you have a kettle?”

The blond boy perks up at being addressed and he nods hurriedly, hopping off the chair he was sitting on. “Sure.”

“Hey hey hey, what are you doing?” Christophe splutters in frustration, voice going shrill, “Don't get the _**kettle**_!” Yuuri can't help the way his lips quirk into a smile.

The dial on the wall switches with a click and all eyes dart to the door. The spin-wheel on the wall points black and the door opens with a deafening _**ka-chunk**_.

Yuuri's eyes widen, throat tight. His stomach flips. He wonders if it's possible for your heart to speed up and stop at the same time.

Standing in the doorway is Victor Nikiforov, in all his glory. His hair is shoulder-length and blond, eyes sky blue and downcast. But his figure is unmistakable – still terribly handsome. Still sharply dressed. Still with the colorful jacket over one shoulder. It's like he stepped straight out from Yuuri's vivid memory, straight out of that stunning moment in time where Yuuri felt loved and safe and warm, rather than the reality that creaks beneath his skin and the lead of his bones.

Yuuri ducks his head and focuses on the food, ignoring the way Christophe's eyes remain on him.

The child, bread forgotten, pads up to Victor excitedly, falling into step with him as he approaches their warm atmosphere. “Master Victor, the king's messengers were here. They said you have to report to the palace as both Pendragon _**and**_ Jenkins.”

Victor's presence is soft but solid at Yuuri's side and something constricts around Yuuri's heart. “Christophe?” he says, voice just as deep and just as soothing, “You're being so obedient.” Yuuri's head spins with the smell of lilacs, the gentle touch of Victor's fingers on his shoulder, the overwhelming lightness his body feels at that moment and hates how his heart hammers in his chest.

_**Victor didn't want you then,**_ he reminds himself, _**he certainly won't want you now.**_

Shriveled. Old. Broken. Useless. Yuuri ducks his head further and sucks in a sharp breath through his nose.

“Not on purpose!” Christophe cries, “He bullied me!”

“Not just anybody can do that.” Yuuri can almost feel Victor's eyes shift to him, to his hunched over form and his old, leathery hands. It's not fair to have something so beautiful stare down at something so ugly. “And you are...who?”

Yuuri's gaze flicks nervously between the simmering meat and Victor's sharp eyes and his face burns under the intensity. He tries to clear his throat but manages nothing but a squawking sound before his words tumble out. “Uhhh you can just call me grandpa Yuuri,” he stammers, “I'm your new housekeeper I just started work today.” His voice cracks and grates on the words and Yuuri feels breathless afterwards. Victor's endlessly blue eyes meet his and Yuuri is captured instantly.

Will he remember him? Will he realize who Yuuri is? Will he be swept off his feet and remember the soft looks they had exchanged, the way his fingers had grazed Yuuri's with such gentleness that Yuuri felt light and happy and warm and safe and loved for the first time in his life?

Will Victor remember the warmth of the air, the distant sounds of music and the sweet smell of confections in the air when he disappeared?

Will he remember how Yuuri fell in love with him, with Victor's hands on his waist and his smile warm and inviting?

A moment passes.

Yuuri's throat seizes and his eyes go wide and he searches, he searches like a man drowning, desperate to find a life-line in an endless ocean of frozen blue.

But there's nothing. No flicker of memory, no flash to his eyes. No twitch to his lips. No indication that he was noticed. That he _**meant**_ anything. Yuuri can't really blame Victor either and the realization settles heavily in his stomach – Victor is, after all, only after lovely, beautiful people, and Yuuri doesn't fit that image. His heart sinks past his ribcage and settles deep in his stomach. He never fit that image at all, did he?

He forces himself to look away, jaw clenched.

“Give that to me,” Victor commands, sliding closer. Yuuri chirps in surprise as Victor, smile lithe and easy, slips the large wooden spoon out of Yuuri's hand. His long, graceful fingers brush Yuuri's gnarled knuckles and the hatter snatches his hand back quickly, holding it to his chest to stave off the pounding of his heart. The swirl of emotions in Yuuri's chest does nothing to hide the heat crawling up his neck at the contact and he shivers slightly despite the warmth. “Hand me two more slices of that bacon and six more of those eggs, Yuuri,” Victor instructs. Yuuri does so diligently, but his mind is a haze, too focused on the way his name rolls so easily off of Victor's tongue.

He's hopeless. He's hopeless and now trapped in this dirty, dusty, broken castle. Yuuri feels like he might collapse.

“Yuuri?” Christophe murmurs, breaking him from his thoughts, “Well, we certainly can't have two Yuris, can we, Victor?”

Victor hums and the small nearly drops his tea pot. Yuuri watches as Christophe and Victor match each other's grins, eyes alight with mischief. “I suppose,” he says, voice rumbling through Yuuri's veins, “We could call my dear apprentice by the nickname his grandfather gave him.” The smaller Yuri gasps indignantly.

“You better not!” he shrieks, clamoring over to the wizard.

“What's wrong,” Victor inquires, turning to the boy with a terribly bright smile, “Yu-ri-o?” The boy freezes, then looks positively _**mortified**_.

“Yurio?” Yuuri echoes, mulling it over. The boy looks hastily between all three of them, hoping for some sort of reassurance or back-up, ocean-blue eyes wide. Yuuri takes pity on him and smiles warmly. “I think that's a great nickname,” he says, handing Victor two more eggs as he stares for a moment into some distant embers, “I never had a nickname growing up, so I think you should be proud of having such a good one, don't you?” Yuuri doesn't miss the flush to the boy's cheeks, but the smaller Yuri turns and huffs, stomping off towards the table.

“I'm going to get plates,” he murmurs.

There's a brief flash of something on Victor's face that Yuuri doesn't quite recognize. The subtle furrow of his brow softens and the placidity of his expression feels less forced, though Yuuri isn't quite sure why. In seconds it disappears and Victor stands, elegant and fluid despite the heavy and cumbersome cast-iron skillet in his hand.

He makes his way to the table in two strides of his long legs and Yuuri has to remind himself not to stare.

“Come and have breakfast, old man!” Yurio calls from the table, letting his legs swing above the floor from his perch on his chair. Yuuri totters over, still sleepy muscles groaning in frustration from the sudden movement, and sits down.

The meal, all things considered, looks delicious. It's only now – with the comfortable, familiar scent of bacon and eggs welcoming him – that Yuuri realizes he sustained himself on nothing but bread and cheese the day prior, and his stomach grumbles appreciatively.

Yurio sucks up his food with reckless abandon, using nothing but a fork to shovel half an egg and shredded pieces of bacon into his gaping maw. Egg yolk remains drip down his chin and onto the already stained tabletop and are accompanied only but Yurio's sharp slurping.

Yuuri makes a face and decides to focus on his own plate for now.

They eat in relatively comfortable silence for several minutes before Victor looks up, eyes bright.

“So,” he says, gaining everyone's attention as he rests his chin on his palm, “What do you have hidden in your pocket, Yuuri?”

Yuuri nearly drops his spoon, mind whirling. “Huh?”

His hand flies to his pants, blood flowing cold through his veins at the accusation. Does Victor really think he's hiding something? To his surprise, there's something there, something that was most certainly not there when he left his home yesterday. His fingers brush paper as he pulls it out as his throat tightens. The dark purple envelope feels heavy between his fingers, like he needs to hold onto it, but there's an unease to it too, like it might bite him if he tries. He wants to drop it, to throw it away, but it calls to him, enticing and sickly sweet, and his fingers shake.

_**Should I just open it?**_ He wonders, breath tight, _**It's just paper, after all. It won't hurt -**_

Victor's voice is deep and grabs him. Grounds him. “Give it to me,” he says as he stands, expression unreadable. Yuuri reaches out despite himself, but as the paper brushes Victor's fingers it shocks them both and drops like lead to the table, burning a mark deep into the wood. The pattern swirls, never settling, but Yuuri catches the image of a star in its myriad of shapes.

“Scorch marks!” Yurio breathes, voice trembling, “Victor, can you read them?”

The air becomes stagnant, heavy. The light that once filled the room seems to dim, save the fire, and Victor leans over the table. Yuuri can't help but lean forward, heart leaping to his throat. “That is ancient sorcery. Quite powerful too.” Victor's voice sounds empty and far-off and Yuuri hates how thick the air feels – humid and dense. It slides its way into Yuuri's body, coiling inside his chest and squeezing his lungs. Victor scans the image, brow furrowed and lips thin. He looks taller, Yuuri realizes, and his voice resonates through the room. “ _You who swallowed a falling star, oh heartless man. Your heart shall soon belong to me..._ ” he reads.

A hush. A pause. Victor huffs quietly, then presses his hand down. “That can't be good for the table.” Victor's long nails dig into the grain and he swipes his hand over, sparks of blue and red shooting out from beneath the power of his hand. With a simple drag the mark is gone and Victor leans back with a small, placated smile, hiding his arm behind the sleeve of his jacket.

The heaviness lifts and Yuuri sucks in air through his nose, like he had forgotten how to breathe.

“It's gone,” Yurio marvels, cocking his head to the side as his thin fingers brush the lacquer.

“The mark may be gone, but the spell is still there,” Victor replies, rising from his seat. He bows, but his smile is empty. “Excuse me, my friends. Please continue your meal.” His polished shoes tap on the hard floors as he makes his way to the fire, dumping the remainder of his plate into Christophe's expectant mouth. His orders are said with casual finality, and Christophe's grumbles go unheeded.

Yuuri watches as Victor's poised, elegant figure climbs the stairs two at a time, disappearing to the second floor. It's only when Yuuri hears the clanking of water in pipes that he turns back to his food, feeling distant.

Yurio's severe stare greets him and Yuuri raises an eyebrow.

“You aren't working for the Wizard of the Waste, are you?” he questions, eyes narrowed.

Anger boils fast and hot through Yuuri's veins. His mind blurs, vision swimming, and all his insecurities, all his failings and frustrations flare up and destroy him. Bile flows up his throat and shoot out his mouth, thick and heavy. “I would never work for that wizard he's the one who - !” His lips clamps shut, shoved together like they were glued and Yuuri screws up his mouth in a desperate attempt to reopen them. “I'm actually a ya-young – ” His mouth is mush, fluid but unwieldy, and it only makes his frustration all the more palpable. He's _**livid**_. He remembers the sneer on the wizard's face, the smirk on his plump lips, his black hair styled and undercut, his cold, dark eyes, his tan skin and thick eyebrows. The way he had looked at Yuuri like he knew he was nothing. Like he was trash. The way he sneered and said _**The best part of that spell is that you can't tell anyone about it!**_ With a terrible, joyful lilt. Yuuri feels sick. Angry. He stands and slams his fists down on the already beaten dining table and Yurio squeaks. “If I ever get my hands on that wizard I'm going to wring his arrogant neck!” he screams.

Yurio is petrified in his seat, plastered to the chair. Yuuri breathes deeply, filling his chest with cool, stale air before sitting back down. “Now,” he says, “finish your breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was such a difficult chapter to finish?  
> Whereas the others I already had ideas for, this one was a doozy. I felt like it was such a slog, but I've been thankfully told by others that it flows quite well. I hope it does.
> 
> Shout-out to all of the wonderful people who commented on chapter one!! You all are so incredibly sweet and I'm glad you like the story so far! Hopefully this chapter tides you over until the next one.
> 
> follow me on tumblr at pilindiel.tumblr.com and feel free to send me messages and comments and such! Feedback is always appreciated. <3


	3. In Which Cleaning Takes Precedence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, "This is what it is to be happy."  
> \- Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

The task before him is daunting, but Yuuri spent the majority of the morning after breakfast deciding where to begin. Yurio sits in a corner by the fire, pretending to pour his attention into a large, leather-bond book that barely covers his knobby knees, but Yuuri can feel his and Christophe's eyes on him as he surveys the mess before them.

They're probably just as concerned as he is where he should start. God knows it's not going to be easy.

He hasn't dealt with worse, but cleaning is something Yuuri knows he's good at, and he takes a breath.

Yuuri turns, broom in hand, and stomps over to the window. It's been beaten down and weathered, dark paint peeling along the frame and the stool, and Yuuri grimaces. Still, a little bit of fresh air may make things more palatable, and with a grunt he manages to dislodge the rusted lock. The window whines in protest as he shoves it open, but the gust of air is welcomed and Yuuri tries to ignore the myriad of dead spiders and bugs that float down from the glass.

Even with the windows wide open and the warm, sea breeze billowing through the curtains, the dust sticks. It's coated every inch of furniture and the deeper Yuuri digs, the more appalled he gets.

The sheer amount of _**trash**_ that Yuuri finds is sickening. Old food is almost a relief compared to the absolute crap he's found. There are discarded jackets, torn through with all manner of cuts and burns, left in long shreds over a chair. He finds unmarked pages of parchment in a heavy, leaded box with a crusted over lock. A shoe, clearly discarded and moth eaten, is under the sink. There are boxes of prunes, half full of dust and unrecognizable spheres that tumble out of a drawer when Yuuri opens it.

He wonders, after throwing several things down the stairs of the entryway, whether any of this stuff is actually _**worth**_ keeping. The parchment seems useful, but as Yuuri starts setting the fourth lonely shoe aside, he decides that none of it can be _**this**_ important.

The books he finds are nestled comfortably in a shelf by the stairs and several stacks of paper are slipped into drawers, but everything else goes.

After a certain point it stops being disgusting and starts being a determination. Yuuri doesn't care how pruned his fingers are or how blistered his hands get. The ache in his arms and legs don't matter when the musty smell starts to fade and the grime in the wood grain gets brushed out with scalding, soapy water.

Hours pass. The sun outside rises high and shadows grow stout and short before nearly disappearing, and Yuuri is just getting started.

It almost becomes automatic. He sections off the first floor in his mind: kitchen, dining room, bookcase, fireplace. The sink gets cleared. The laundry gets washed. Trash is thrown. Yuuri curses for what feels like the millionth time, voice clipped and rough as he rubs a stubborn spot in the floor.

Slowly, surely, the smell fades.

Either that or Yuuri has gotten so used to it that his nostrils are forever burned, but he takes it as a good sign.

When he sees the grain of the wood, polished and sparkling and free of gunk, he feels a little more relaxed.

Victor's castle, he realizes, is actually quite beautiful when you can actually _**see**_ it.

The light from the window shines a lot more brightly when not smeared with dust and the stone walls, though mostly bare, are warm and inviting. The floor glitters when polished and Yuuri is surprised to find how soft the whole place looks now. Magical, but in a simple way. Like how you can feel a cool breeze kiss your cheek on an early morning.

Yuuri shifts his attention with a gentle hum to the fireplace, hefting a roll of muslin in his arms.

Christophe splutters, tiny tendrils clinging to a single, half-eaten log. “I'm going out, Yuuri!” he whines, “Get some firewood, quick!”

Yuuri tries not to roll his eyes as he lays down the fabric, grabbing a pair of fire tongs in his gnarled hands. Adding this on top of the scandalized gasps he received from his audience throughout the course of the day, he figured this would be the least of everyone's problems. Shouldn't they be congratulating him? Didn't they see the garbage he had to clean? Why was everyone in this household so dramatic?

“You'll be fine,” Yuuri says, tenderly picking Christophe's log with his tools, “I'm just cleaning out the ashes.”

“No I'm _**not**_ fine!” the fire coughs petulantly, tiny arms flailing as Yuuri sets him aside, “Please, _**please**_ Yuuri.”

With a sigh, Yuuri hefts the iron ash shovel in his hands, using its long pole to scrape the mountainous pile of ashes into the waiting arms of the cloth on the floor. It chokes the air as it falls, sticking to the inside of Yuuri's throat, but he toughs through his violent coughs, ignoring Christophe's feeble protests as he continues his task.

“Calm down,” Yuuri tuts as he ties the fabric off and drags it over his shoulder, “I'll be right back.” Yuuri's stumpy legs feel every step as he trudges down the small set of stairs and his back creaks when he dumps the ashes unceremoniously with the rest of the rubbish on the other side of the door.

He pauses a moment outside the castle to breathe. The ocean air is warm but not overpowering, and the gentle wind rustles his gray hairs. He can tell the market is bustling still – the smell of fish is rank through the street and he can hear distant, jovial chatter. It's comforting. Homely.

Yuuri's throat tightens and he blinks rapidly. For a second it sits heavy in his chest, coils around his lungs and threatens to topple him to the cobbles.

He swallows hard, sniffs, and wipes the sweat off his brow.

_**Later, Yuuri. You still have work to do.** _

When Yuuri tromps back up the stairs, his quite certain his heart stutters to a stop.

Victor, smile warm and soft, is standing before the fire in all his glory. His blond hair, more visible in the sunlight, practically sparkles as he turns. Victor's eyes meet Yuuri's without hesitation and the hatter has no time to avert them.

Yuuri wonders if his gasp is as loud as it feels escaping his chest.

“I'd appreciate if you didn't torment my friend,” Victor says with a small chuckle, stepping closer into Yuuri's space. Christophe hums in agreement, but all Yuuri can muster is a curt nod, eyes scanning Victor's face.

His neck burns and Yuuri is certain it's not from the work of his cleaning expedition. Victor is so close Yuuri can see the crinkle in the corner of his eyes as he smiles, the different shades of blue. Yuuri wants to bask in it. Drown in it. He feels the breath leave his lungs and grabs the back of the chair by the fire to steady himself.

Christophe makes a snide comment, though whether it's related to the cleaning or Yuuri's reactions he isn't sure – he cant hear anything over the thudding of his heart. All he is sure of is the puff of smoke suddenly in the air and the way it sticks like tar in his lungs.

Yuuri's eyes blur and he cant stop the hacking of his lungs; the stuttered intake of breath and the rough coughing that ensues. Victor is no better off – and his breathes come in sharp gasps as he coughs and grips the back of the chair by the fireplace in support.

Yuuri's not sure what prompts it: what makes the question bubble up before he can stop it. He's not sure whether it's seeing Victor's carefully held composure fall or his own underlying need to tease someone who clearly isn't as inhuman as he's seemed, but he can't help it. “Is everyone around you this dramatic?” Yuuri wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes. The smile he gets in response is better than anything Yuuri could have expected.

It pulls at Victor's lips, lights up his face, and he's so close Yuuri can pin-point the exact place the gradient in his eyes change from dark to light blue. “Only if they live with me,” Victor replies, trying to clear his throat. Yuuri smiles back and tries not to think too hard about the rapid beating of his heart.

“Well, I better step up my game if I'm going to fit in,” Yuuri responds.

Victor's expression softens and Yuuri's gaze flies down to their hands, barely centimeters apart on the back of the chair. The wood does little to hold him steady, and Yuuri is certain he'll tumble to the ground if so much as the wind passes between them. Victor's slender pinkie pokes Yuuri's thumb and Yuuri swears he must have shocked him with some sort of magic to get his heart to speed up that fast. Yuuri can't stop staring at the way words form so perfectly around Victor's lips, the way his mouth almost forms a heart. “I think you're fitting in just fine.”

Yuuri wonders, momentarily, what it would be like to lean forward, to get further into Victor's space and bask in the sunlight he seems to radiate, but he stills. Holds. Waits for Victor to move.

Yuuri tries to swallow and Victor follows the bobbing of his Adam's Apple with his eyes before dragging them back up to Yuuri's face.

The clomp of feet on the stairs startles both of them and Victor steps back, pulling his coat more securely around his shoulder. Yurio takes the steps two at a time as he clambers down the stairs, smile alight.

“Victor, I just finished this one,” he says triumphantly, holding up a frayed, red leather-bound book, “Where's the next?” Victor's smile is there but Yuuri notices there's no pinch to the corner of his eyes, no light to his gaze. Still, the wizard waves his hand and another volume floats off the shelf, this one doted with purples and golds. Yurio grins and bounds over to it, plucking it out of the air with ease and treasuring it close to his chest.

Victor, however, heads towards the door.

“Leaving already?” Christophe wonders and Yuuri definitely catches the concern in his voice when Victor turns the knob. The darkness is deep, all-encompassing. A shiver crawls up Yuuri's spine as he stares out, the hairs rising on the back of his neck.

“Make sure our housekeeper doesn't get carried away while I'm gone,” Victor says over his shoulder before stepping out into the void. The door closes behind him with a deafening _**clunk**_ and the three of them are left in silence.

Yurio's eye-roll is so exaggerated it's almost audible. “ _ **Yuu**_ ri,” he complains, “What did you do now?”

“Oh simple,” Christophe says with a sigh, adding to the theatrics, “I was almost smothered to death, subsequently killing Victor in the process.”

Yuuri lifts his chin, lips pressed in a thin line. “You're _**fine**_ ,” he replies hotly, picking up his discarded broom, “Now quit bothering me. I've got work to do.”

He begins to ascend the stairs, only to be stopped by a shaky grip on the back of his shirt. Yurio, flushed and wide-eyed, stares up at him.

“W-Wait!” he blurts out, “You cant go up there!”

Yuuri can't stop his grin or the way one of his eyebrows quirks. “Whatever you don't want me to clean, better hide it now.”

Yurio pales, glances up at the darkness above, then frantically crawls up the steps, slipping on the third before gaining momentum. “Save my room for last!” he shouts. Yuuri waits a moment, for the inevitable frantic slamming of a door, before finally letting out a laugh. Honestly, these little outbursts must be giving him some energy because he feels much lighter than before.

He still takes the stairs slowly, the creaks echoing softly through the castle.

When he finally reaches the landing and gets a better view of the hallway, he can't stop the pinching of his brow. It's like the first floor all over again, dust and grime and foul odors burning his nose. The only window he can see is far too high up to open and Yuuri rubs his temples.

Well, this is going to be a pain.

He jiggles the closest door, knob brassy and warm to the touch, and Yuuri's not sure what knocks him back more – the colors or the _**smell**_.

The humid air hits him in a wall, steam rolling out of the room endlessly. Yuuri's glasses fog immediately and he glowers as he takes a step back, batting the blur away from his sight.

Yuuri crinkles his nose when his eyes finally adjust. _**Ah,**_ he thinks, _**The bathroom**_. It's much brighter in the bathroom than the hall, but it is in almost a worse state than the rest of the house. Water drips slowly from the faucet, leaving a terrible ring of rust around the drain of the sink and there are discarded towels and bowls all over the ground, but Yuuri could almost deal with that if it weren't for the... _ **paint**_? The stains that decorate the walls are far too vibrant and colourful to be normal, and for a moment Yuuri wonders if he'll break some sort of spell if he so much as steps inside. Splatters of green, pink, blue and orange litter the walls, the sink, the toilet, the _**tub.**_

Dear God, the _**tub**_.

It's still full of steaming murky water, perfume bottles and oils strewn along the edges. In fact, unmarked bottles and bath salts are spilled over the floor and, of course, there are books piled here too, on a lone stool by the sorry excuse for a toilet. The smell is at least welcomed – overly sweet, overly flowery, with a headiness that makes Yuuri a little dizzy – but Yuuri is more sympathetic to it than the dry, sooty smell he's been dealing with all day.

With a huff he stomps over to the window and shoves it open, marveling as the wind blows him back. His hair is a frantic mess and when the steam clears once more from his frames, he's in awe. The castle clanks and shakes, metal clanging and banging relentlessly, and for the first time since he got here Yuuri seems to realize:

He is in a _**castle**_. He is in a castle that _**moves**_. He is staying in a _**castle**_ that _**moves**_ and is full of _**magic**_ that no normal person has ever been able to witness before.

Giddy, childlike excitement floods through his veins and Yuuri turns, yelling down the stairs. “Chris! Christophe!” He feels breathless and he takes the first couple of steps, stooping down to stare at the fire through the gaps in the railing. “Are you the one moving the castle?”

Christophe smirks, hazel eyes alight. “So you've finally realized it?”

Yuuri can't still his enthusiasm, practically bouncing in place. “I am thoroughly impressed! You're a first class fire-demon, I like your spark!” Yuuri winks, but he's certain he sees the tiniest bit of blue rise to Christophe's cheeks before he disappears.

Yuuri trudges up the stairs as fast as his stocky legs can carry him, all the way up the second set to the top floor. He wrestles with the door outside, ignoring Yurio's surprised shriek, and smiles as the gust of wind rustles his clothes. He steps out onto the balcony and leans over the railing, letting the wooded air engulf him.

The mountains were always this distant backdrop to his hometown. A looming, silent protector of his little city and their little lives. Isolating, but in a comforting way – like a parent or guardian who wants to defend their loved ones from the outside world.

It's different being this close, where the snow on their peaks isn't just a smattering of colour, but a very clear distinction of rock and trees, shades and hues. There are trees all around, something Yuuri wasn't expecting. It's not heavily forested, but they are sturdy and tall – spruces that bring a faint piney scent and make the ache in Yuuri's bones a little more bearable. The short grasses have small sprouts of yellow and white flowers and in the distance, reflecting it all, is a lake that takes Yuuri's breath away.

The water is undisturbed like glass, like a painting, covered with shades of the deepest, clearest blue Yuuri has ever seen. It stretches on for miles, endless and elegant, and Yuuri looks wistfully on, wondering where the far distant shore ends.

Yurio joins him at the railing after a moment, pudgy arms crossed.

“It's beautiful,” Yuuri sighs, despite _**beautiful**_ barely scraping the surface of what he feels.

Yurio doesn't take the opportunity to be petulant for once and instead he nods solemnly. “It's called Star Lake.” Before Yuuri can ask more, a banging startles both of them and Yurio leans over the railing to get a better look.

“Hey, what's that stick doing in there?” he wonders. Yuuri catches sight of long, brightly colored wood and sighs.

“Help me with this, Yurio,” he requests, reaching out to wrap his crooked fingers around the branch. Yurio nods and holds on and Yuuri sucks in a breath and _**pulls**_. The clothes pop up first as they start to wiggle the stick free and they're just as Yuuri remembers: light blue sparkling along long white sleeves with a dark blue scarf and a top hat that sits lopsidedly against a tan, knobby covered face. One of the growths gets stuck along one of the sides of the hole he's found himself in, but Yuuri shifts his weight and maneuvers him safely out, seeing those dark eyes and that painted on, borderline mischievous, smile.

“It's a scarecrow,” Yurio exclaims, making a face, “His head looks like a ginger root.”

“Yep,” Yuuri murmurs, wiping his sweating hands on his pants after they set the stick down, “He always seems to get stuck upside down.”

With a flourish the scarecrow jumps, spinning happily in place on one of the castle's many mechanical appendages.

Yuuri and Yurio watch him for a moment before Yuuri rubs the back of his neck. “He keeps following me everywhere. Seems to have taken a liking to me.”

Yurio eyes him suspiciously, his hum uncertain but teasing. “Are you _**sure**_ you're not a wizard, Yuuri?”

The hatter turns to his companion and waggles his eyebrows. “Oh yes,” he says, voice gravely and menacing. He leans down and grins maliciously as the corners of Yurio's mouth twitches, “I'm the worst kind of wizard ever, the kind that _**cleans**_.” He pokes Yurio in the stomach and the laughter that bubbles between the two of them is light. Pleasant.

When the castle slows to a stop, Yuuri uses it as a perfect opportunity to air out the piles of laundry he accumulated in his endeavor, roping in his two companions to help while he sets things up for a quick lunch.

The scarecrow, affectionately named 'Root', stands proudly on top of the castle's nose, sequined arms glittering in the sun as he holds four lines of laundry in his stiff arms.

Yuuri and Yurio drag out a table and sit by the lake, enjoying the chirp of birds and the gentle lapping of the water against the banks as they nibble on spiced sausage and warm, sourdough bread.

Yuuri can't stop staring at the vastness of the lake as they sit, at the distant clouds and the crisp air. At the splatter of tiny flowers at his feet and the beauty of the landscape. He sinks into his chair, letting the mug of tea in his hands spread warmth through his skin, and lets his mind wander.

“I think he likes doing the laundry,” Yurio comments, looking back up at the scarecrow.

Yuuri hums, barely listening. “I bet he'll have it dry in no time.”

“I bet he's some sort of demon,” Yurio pipes up again, with the singular attention only a child can have, “Christophe doesn't seem to mind him at all.”

“You're right, he probably is a demon,” Yuuri mumbles, feeling a smile tug at his lips, “But he lead me here, so maybe he's the good kind.”

After several moments of silence Yurio leaves him to his tea, and Yuuri sits quietly, watching the breeze flutter the reflections of the water.

It makes things a little easier, a little more heartening. If he wasn't cursed, he would have never left his home. Would have never seen this beautiful castle or this beautiful lake. He would have never felt this peace.

Then again the monotony was safe, familiar. He would have never had to feel this peace, because he wouldn't have needed the reprieve.

It stirs in him heavily, sits in his chest and coils around his lungs, suffocating him. He wants to solve Victor's problems, but he knows he can't. He wants to fix his own curse, but he knows he can't.

He wants to go _**home**_ , but he knows he can't.

Yuuri leans back hard against the wood of the chair, chest tight. The press against his skin is grounding in a way, but the serenity of the lake before him is no longer as calming. It's a reminder of where he is and how he got here; of the problems he's faced and the trials he knows are still to come. The distant clouds, which at first were calming, almost feel like they're mocking him now – a constant noise and darkness whenever he finds quiet.

It's almost a relief when Yurio calls him inside and helps him carry in his chair – he wasn't sure how much longer he could be left with his thoughts.

Peace can only last so long when your mind constantly prepares for chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter was a bit delayed. (I was on vacation and just got back into the swing of things this week after being sick!) I had the option to combine this one and the next one, but the next one is gonna be quite emotional so I didn't want to overload anyone. Hopefully the scenery in this chapter will tide you all over.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who commented/bookmarked/kudo'd so far! You guys are so sweet and I'm so glad you're enjoying things.
> 
> Remember to follow me on pilindiel.tumblr.com for any updates or questions you have! I always love talking to people on there and find it easier to discuss story ideas, characters, and writing on there so hit me up, if you'd like. <3


	4. That Which Overflows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was a curious feeling, that something could be so close and so distant at the same time.”  
> \- Lemony Snicket

When Yuuri and Yurio step out onto Porthaven's unkempt street, the smell is what hits them first. It's like a wall: cinnamon, coriander, cumin, and mint mixed with fresh meat, fish, and the salt of the sea. It's such a contrast to the pine forests of the Wastes that it makes Yuuri's eyes water, but the fresh air puts a spring in his otherwise heavy steps.

The buildings around them are strikingly different. Rather than the simple sloped roofs and cobbled streets of Market Chipping, Porthaven's homes are made of sandy, red-ish blocks of stone and the doors and windows are horseshoe shaped arches that point high towards the glittering sun. The wooden doors are so intricately carved that Yuuri assumes they must have been made hundreds of years ago, with their delicate patterns and shapes. But what catches Yuuri's attention most are the tiles. They cover the walls and fountains in the alley Yuuri finds himself in and the blues, greens, and golds weave into mesmerizing geometric shapes. The floral motifs are breathtaking and Yuuri cant help the way his eyes linger on the intricate patterns and intersecting lines as they move closer to the ocean and the stench of freshly caught fish.

“I dont know why we're doing this,” Yurio gripes as he clutches a wooden basket in his pudgy hands, “Victor hardly eats anything.”

“Too bad,” Yuuri retorts, barely giving Yurio a passing glance as he makes his way through the crowd. Yuuri greatly appreciates the openness of the city – he's not sure he would feel as comfortable if the buildings loomed over him as they did in his hometown. The lack of sunlight as he wandered the narrow streets of Market Chipping always made him feel suffocated, trapped. Porthaven's buildings are short and stocky, and the laughter from the merchants and buyers around him eases the tension in his chest, at least a little bit.

People of all shapes and skin colours are yelling in unfamiliar, musical languages that Yuuri can't understand, but he makes his way through the open-air market with a small smile all the same.

They turn a corner and Yuuri can't stop the swell in his chest. Down the lane is the mouth of the port – all manner of ships bob in the gentle swell of the ocean and the sun glimmers off the water like Yuuri always pictured it would in his books. Though it is slightly greener than he imagined it's still stunning and Yuuri can't help but comment.

“I've never seen the ocean before,” he says to his companion, “It's beautiful.”

“It always looks like that,” Yurio replies matter-of-factly. Yuuri snorts loudly in response – a vulgar, rude sound – but the smile that rises to Yurio's lips is worth it.

The market proper is terribly endearing. Bright cloth awnings line both sides of the little street, covering crates of fresh fruits and vegetables from the oppression of the sun. Tan-skinned merchants shout prices and deals at the pair as they pass and Yuuri admires the giant baskets full of ground spices, piled high like mountains of gold. They duck beneath a faded blue canopy when Yuuri spies a cask of fresh, rusty yellow cumin. He buys a pound with a smile and a polite bow and places the fragrant seasoning in Yurio's basket.

There are people hustling towards the pier, most likely where the freshest produce are, but Yuuri is content to drag Yurio along the sidelines, chatting idly with the people who seem to understand him and gesturing vaguely with the people who don't. It eases the constriction of Yuuri's lungs a little when they laugh and he buys several potatoes from a cheery older woman with four visible teeth and a dazzling smile.

 _ **Older**_ woman. Yuuri wants to scoff. He's quite sure she's younger than him by at least twenty years. The fresh air and excitement of the market almost makes him forget his circumstances. Almost makes him forget his problems and the ache of his bones.

But Yuuri can never escape them for long.

With a tightening in his throat, they move on.

Several covers down he finds the seafood, though they've been breathing the stench in for hours. Rows and rows of dead fish line the stalls up ahead, full of barracudas, mullets, sea perch and swordfish. The fetor and the flies do little to deter customers and Yuuri watches in awe as someone further down slaps a whole marlin on their cart and whisks it down the street, disappearing through a smoking, cloth-covered doorway.

Yuuri leans over one of the tables to inspect freshly caught tuna, holding it up by its lip. Its skin is slick but the gradient of sliver to blue scales is nearly perfect. Yuuri's back creaks as he looks up at the merchant who smiles toothily at him through a dark, bushy beard and scraggly eyebrows. He asks how much it is and the merchant only smiles wider.

Screaming in the distance gives their small exchange pause and the man whips around.

“One of our ships is in the harbor!” A woman with a scarf on her head cries, “It looks like it's on fire!”

Panic is like a floodgate – it only takes one voice, one exclamation of fear – to send people running.

Yuuri's heart pounds as screams fill the air. He catches snippets of sentences as their shopkeeper rushes off into the throng of the crowd. He's pretty sure he hears “serious battle” among the cries and yelling, but all Yuuri can focus on is the blood flooding his ears and the smothering heat of the sea breeze.

He feels flushed, _**hot**_ , and he presses his hunched back against the closest wall, eyes fixed on the distant water. The warm, rough stone does little to keep his legs from shaking and Yuuri's lungs fill with burning, sticky air.

The warship is an enormous, gaudy hunk of metal being tugged by a smaller, much more homely boat. The hull of the ship is smoking, marking the sky black, and even from his little spot on the wall Yuuri can see hundreds of sailors jumping into the freezing water. The clanging of warning bells is deafening.

A small tug on Yuuri's shirt causes him to jump but Yurio's wide, blue eyes stare up at him pleadingly. His voice is muddled, but Yuuri catches the gist of what he's saying. “Let's take a closer look!”

“No,” Yuuri chokes, shaking his head. He feels dizzy, breathless. There are too many people, too many things going on. Too much noise. His palms are sweating. “I-I think I've seen all I can take. Lets go home.” The soles of his feet are taut, there's a tightness to his legs, but his hands can't stop shaking.

Yuuri tries to remind himself to breathe, to suck in air through his nose and breathe out through his mouth as he tries to find an exit.

 _ **Out.**_ Out he needs to get _**out**_. He needs to –

_**Breathe, Yuuri, breathe.** _

Like a shot Yuuri hears it. A deep, sonorous, _**heavy**_ sound. Like a stomp on his heart. Like a snake around his throat.

The black creature rises from the ground by the pier and Yuuri's heart stops. It stands tall, still vaguely humanoid and dripping onto the street, observing the crowd.

It doesn't have eyes, but Yuuri can still feel its stare, still knows exactly what it's looking for.

Yuuri's words escape his chest through a hiss. “The wizard's henchmen are here!”

“What?!”

“Be careful!” he wheezes, “They're only a few feet away.” Yurio freezes, hand on Yuuri's sleeve. Yuuri bites the inside of his cheek, breathing heavily through his nose. But in mere moments the creature is gone, lost to the crowd and the cacophony. “They're gone,” Yuuri breathes, “I don't understand why no one else seemed to notice them.”

A hum rushes through the air before he can even finish his sentence. It grows in volume, vibrates the air, shakes the earth. Yuuri clutches the edge of the wall, his other hand gripping tightly to Yurio's thin wrist.

Everyone's eyes fly to the clouds and Yuuri can barely hear his heartbeat over the screams. The sound is like a tearing of parchment but thousands of times louder, like the sky itself is paper and it's being shredded by engines and fire. Yuuri wants to run, he wants to get _**out**_ but his legs are leaded, bolted to the quaking ground.

A whistle cuts through the air and Yuuri can't tear his eyes away from the sea. A blob of dark metal falls. It pulses the water, bubbles, explodes.

Fire.

People are pointing, running, crying. Another explosion trembles the ground but Yuuri can't look. He can't handle it.

Yurio says something that disappears to the noise, but the pulse of Yurio's hand reminds him to move and Yuuri chokes on air, turns, and runs.

His eyes burn, his heart pounds, his stomach slides up to his chest making it impossible to breathe, but Yuuri keeps running until he sees the oak of the front door, tearing it open before he desperately crawls up the stairs.

He swallows air, covers his eyes, and tries not to gag. The cold wood is comforting, solid, but his body is still rattled, his head is still whirling. He feels sick. Dizzy.

It's not like the room is spinning – he feels distant, breathless and not just from the running – the world isn't here anymore. He's dazed. Yuuri feels faint.

He barely gets to the top step before sitting down and has to desperately try to catch his breath. Yurio shows up in moments, basket overflowing with spice and potatoes.

His icy eyes are wide and Yuuri hastily has to look away from them, focusing on the grout between the wood of the floor.

“Are you okay?” Yurio asks nervously, setting the basket down on the top step.

Yuuri's voice is faraway, empty. He's surprised he can keep it so level. “I just need a glass of water.”

Yurio says nothing as he patters over to the sink and for once, Yuuri is not grateful for the silence. Instead it lets his mind wander and it makes things unbearable. All he can see is the fire, the pain. All he hears is the screaming. The sobbing. The blare of the airship's engine. He shoves his glasses up onto his forehead, grounds his leathery palms into his eyes. He swears he can feel everyone's stare and he wants to curl into himself and disappear, to go back to his tiny shop and his tiny dreams and his tiny life.

He's suffocating.

Christophe says his name, says _**something**_ , but Yuuri can't hear what he follows it with, he can't stop feeling the sharpness of his gaze and the _**judgment**_ –

This isn't –

His breath is stuck in his chest, tangled in his throat and he just –

His eyes sting and he can't feel like this in front of people he can't feel weak he's supposed to get through this he can't –

_**Don't cry, Yuuri, don't you dare. Don't draw attention.** _

A scream. Desperate. Anguished. Yuuri can't suck in air fast enough, he can't –

_**Breathe, Yuuri. Just breathe.** _

But the voice isn't from the fire outside, isn't from the metal and the ocean. It's upstairs, and it resonates through the wood. More high pitched. More whiny.

Yuuri slaps his palms onto the floor, demands to feel the cold of its polish, demands to focus. His vision fades in and out, debating between the cedar of the ground and the flicking of the fireplace. His attention bleeds, like his eyes can't adjust to anything but the background.

The thudding of feet vibrates down the staircase to Yuuri's gnarled fingers and he finally looks up, throat tightening for a different reason.

He staggers to his unsteady feet, gripping to the iron railing for support.

Victor, in nothing but a towel, trundles towards him. Steam rolls of his body from the heat of his bath and Yuuri watches rivulets of water slide down from his scalp, caressing his smooth skin before being absorbed by the cloth, hung low and loose on his hips. Yuuri bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to let his eyes linger too long on Victor's chest, the strong muscles of his thighs, or the sharp jut of his hips.

Victor's eyes are wild, passionate, and Yuuri wants to forget the world and drown in them.

He isn't sure he can handle this.

There are too many things going on, too many thoughts in his head. His heart is pounding, his ears hurt. His head is spinning.

Yuuri barely registers what Victor is saying, lost in his eyes and his proximity. He can smell the sharpness of Victor's soap, the hint of lavender.

He's choking on it.

“You sabotaged me!” Victor cries and Yuuri is thankful for the harshness of his tone, for the accusation. It helps keep things clear, keeps him attentive. “Look what you've done to my hair! _**Look!**_ ”

Yuuri's brain struggles to catch up. He didn't even notice that the gold had turned to silver and his nails dig into the metal of the railing.

Yuuri swallows, but the lump in his throat remains. He starts, shakily. “What a pretty colour – ”

“It's hideous!” Victor reprimands, long, slender, _**beautiful**_ fingers digging into his grayed scalp, “You completely ruined my magical potions in the bathroom!”

Yuuri wants to step back, to hide from those eyes and those words but his legs are shaking. He can't. He's frozen in that gaze, in Victor's allegation and in Victor's voice. Does Victor even realize how _**stuck**_ Yuuri is?

Yuuri gulps, tries to remember how words form when his tongue is so thick and heavy in his mouth. “I-I just organized things Victor, nothing's ruined – ”

“ _ **Wrong.**_ Wrong!” Victor snaps, tears pricking the corners of his endlessly blue eyes, “I specifically ordered you not to get carried away!” He slumps in the chair by the fire, curved over into his hands. He shudders, sobs, and somehow Yuuri's heart still manages to break a little further.

Why do you always make things worse, Yuuri?

_**Why do you make things worse?** _

“And now I'm repulsive,” Victor gasps, “I cant live like this.”

How Yuuri manages to take a step forward is beyond him. The air he sucks in does nothing to stop the tension in his chest, does nothing to stop how he can't hear himself over the thudding in his ears. _**Don't panic, Yuuri**_. “Come on, it's not that bad,” he placates weakly, “Silver is a great colour on you!”

“Don't you get it?” Victor finally turns to him, striking Yuuri down to his core, and the tears pooled in his eyes roll down his perfect pale cheeks, dripping down his chin. His gaze is severe. _**Enraged**_. Yuuri isn't sure his heart is beating anymore. “There's no point in living if you're not beautiful!” Victor spits.

It stings. It slows the world. Stills Yuuri's thoughts.

_**There's no point in living.** _

It fixates.

_**You're not beautiful.** _

It burns Yuuri from the inside, throat first. It sears down to his chest, inflames his heart, cremates his lungs. His stomach is empty, the perfect kindling for this pain, and the numbness and ice melts in fire and pain and metal.

He swears he can hear it screaming.

_**You're not beautiful.** _

Yuuri's eyes hurt. The silence of the room crushes him. He knows everyone is looking at him, waiting for him to respond. To say something witty or funny. To brush off Victor's dramatics and pretend like it doesn't matter, like his bones aren't too heavy and his body isn't too thick. Like he _**has**_ something to say.

Like he doesn't hate himself.

How Yuuri finds his voice is baffling. He can barely hear it over his heart, what little of it he has left. “I wouldn't know,” he chokes. There's a stillness to the air, a heaviness he knows he caused. He closes his eyes and hates the crack in his voice. “I've never been beautiful.”

If he hears a gasp he doesn't register it.

_**You're not beautiful.** _

Yuuri bows, swiftly, fists clenched at his sides.

He turns, trips down the front steps and can feel everyone's silent eyes on him as he turns the heavy iron knob on the front door. He hopes no one notices his tears, but knows that they do.

Pathetic.

Yuuri throws the front door open and stumbles out into the Wastes.

The rain is freezing. It seeps into his burning skin through his clothes, his hat long forgotten in the mud. The rain drizzles across his face and he almost can't feel the heat with the cold sliding down his wrinkles and onto the frigid ground.

His mind can't stop wandering and he can't stop the speed of his thoughts. It travels back to his home and he nearly asphyxiates. Are his friends looking for him? Who's making the hats at the shop? Did anyone even notice he was gone? Did his family try to find him?

He wonders, but he already knows the answer.

He's not sure when the sobbing starts, but when it does it doesn't stop.

He bites his tongue and tries to stave it off, closes his eyes to shut them out, to stop the pain and stop the fear and stop the disappointment and his failures but it can't.

It demands to be felt.

The clogging of his throat doesn't halt his cries, doesn't cease his mind.

You're not beautiful.

You're old.

Incompetent.

A failure.

Weak.

Yuuri's knees give out and the slick mud does nothing to ground him. He chokes. Suffocates. Covers his eyes and lets it blow through him in so many waves he doesn't bother to keep count.

_**I'm not good enough to be loved.** _

He hates it. Crying exposes him, bleeds him dry. Makes him frail. Empty. He covers his mouth with one hand, the other over his eyes, and hopes the rain and thunder masks the noise. The last thing he wants is to be more of a spectacle than he already is.

He doesn't need an audience.

It feels like vomiting – rough and violent and visceral and _**raw**_. There's nothing positive about crying. It's painful and rough, like someone is scraping out your insides and throwing them to the ground for the world to see.

Letting everyone see how vulnerable you are.

How _**weak**_ you are.

The rain stains him, washes away parts of his fears and renews others. It sinks into him, freezes him. Makes him numb.

It's easier to be numb – then no one can see you when the world is overwhelmingly hot.

Yuuri sits there for what seems like far too long and yet he still cant feel the icy chill of the ground or the bitterness of the wind.

And suddenly, the rain stops. The biting wind brings an actual earthy scent with it this time and when Yuuri looks up he's greeted with a nearly mischievous smile, painted onto a large and knobby ginger root. His prince-like clothes sparkle and shine with rainwater and Yuuri sighs. Root has a rather large umbrella in his hand, protecting Yuuri from the elements as best he can. Keeping him from the rain. Keeping him from his thoughts.

Quietly, Yuuri wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve, pushing his glasses back up his nose. His joints creak as he attempts to stand, griping Root's pole to steady himself.

Before he can even give thanks, however, Yurio splashes out into the rain from the solid oak front door, tugging hurriedly on Yuuri's soaked sleeve.

“Yuuri, you've gotta come back inside,” he pleads, eyes wide, “Victor's in trouble!”

Yuuri lets himself be lead, padding back up the stairs into the heat of the castle and Christophe's fire, though the warmth barely reaches him.

Victor is face-planted on the hearth, oozing a green, sticky substance all over the floor and the fireplace. It slinks towards Christophe, who looks positively mortified.

Christophe glances at Yuuri helplessly, a small twig above his head, and gestures wildly, swearing in an unfamiliar language.

“Is he dead?” Yurio asks. Yuuri wonders for a moment whether that was a hopeful tone in his voice or not before rolling up his sleeves and stomping over to Victor's hunched over form.

“He's fine,” Yuuri murmurs, bending down to wrap one of Victor's dripping arms over his shoulder, “He's just throwing a tantrum.”

Victor is heavy, no doubt at least sixty percent muscle and forty percent height, but Yuuri trudges up the stairs all the same, barely feeling the weight.

He doesn't feel much of anything. Not the green slime dripping down the back of his shirt from Victor's limp arm or the stain seeping through his already damp clothes. He feels very little.

He wishes he felt nothing.

Yuuri's vision barely focuses, debating between the top stair or the distant bathroom door and centering on neither as he takes step after step, perspective blurring.

He makes no effort to look at the man in his stoutly arms, a contrast to himself. Tall, muscular, handsome. It's not worth it. Yuuri's not sure he can stand looking at Victor right now.

He's not sure he wants to meet his eyes, to see the shame or disappointment or guilt.

Or worse, nothing.

He couldn't live with either, so he refuses to look despite feeling Victor's eyes burning into his neck at each step.

The chill of the rain isn't placated at all by the steam from the bathroom and when he deposits Victor into the tub and lets Yurio take over, his eyes are stuck to the floor.

He closes the bathroom door, straddling the slime trail Victor has left, and sighs.

Yuuri scrubs a hand down his face, his chuckle broken.

“Now I have to mop again,” he mutters and tries not to sound as empty as he feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to whoever figures out which city I based Porthaven off of!
> 
> But yes, apologies, friends. I wanted this chapter out much earlier. This chapter is very personal and I feel a little...exposed? With how I've written this, but I also feel it is important to share.
> 
> I actually suffer from really bad anxiety, and anyone who follows me on tumblr has probably seen some vague posts about it. I relate a lot to Sophie and Yuuri specifically because of their anxieties, and I think combining both of them in one has been both an intense struggle and a very cathartic process. The only way this trifecta could be more perfect is if I included Marco Bodt in it somehow, aha.
> 
> This chapter was written while listening to James Dean & Audrey Hepburn by Sleeping With Sirens, Lover Dearest by Mariana's Trench, and Closer by The Tiny.


	5. In Which There is a Great Deal of Witchcraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease forever to be able to do it."  
> \- J.M. Barrie

Victor's room is eclectic. The colours are vibrant but dark – purples, reds, greens – and it takes several long moments for Yuuri to even realize there's a window on the opposite side with how dark it is. Green dominates the pallet, saturating everything like a forest, and the bookshelves wind themselves around the room like gnarled tree branches. Countless jewels and runes hang precariously from the ceiling,mobiles twirl and chime with an unseen wind, and Victor's emerald desk is littered with potted plants and sprigs of flowers. A bushel of lilacs is proudly displayed on Victor's bedside table and Yuuri is surprised that the scent doesn't overwhelm him despite the abundance of petals. It's a light, comforting smell, and the vase the flowers sit in is full of swirling silver and blue water.

Even with the busy room, Victor stands out. His bed is actually tame in comparison: his pillows are a light tan with printed faded flowers and bed sheets to match. Victor sits up immediately when he sees Yuuri enter, but Yuuri can't quite meet his gaze, nor can he seem to force his stubborn voice to speak as he sits stiffly in the available chair.

The teacup he has in his hands is hot, and he molds his knobby fingers around the handle before handing it to Victor's waiting grasp.

Victor stares at the cup blankly. Yuuri swallows.

“T-Tea,” he stammers. Victor looks lost. Yuuri clears his throat, neck flushing. He gestures wildly between them and tries to remedy his statement before pointedly sticking his hands in his lap. It doesn't stop his fidgeting. “I...I thought you m-might want some t-tea.”

Yuuri can't stop staring at his twitching fingers.

“Oh,” Victor exclaims, surprised. His legs shuffle a little under the blankets. “Uh, thanks.”

There's silence as Victor takes a sip and Yuuri glances up at him before hastily looking away, ears burning. He picks at one of the fraying threads near the pocket of his black trousers, wrapping it around his finger. Yuuri's chest is tight. He wants to talk about what happened, wants to apologize for his outburst and his crying and his awkwardness, but his lips are pressed together and the words die in his throat, stomach in knots.

“Good,” Victor says.

Yuuri's heart flutters and he glances up, the thread around his finger snapping. “Wh-what?”

“The tea!” Victor rectifies quickly, looking between Yuuri and the mug. The embarrassed flush to his cheeks is endearing, but Yuuri doesn't stare for long. “It's uh...It's good.”

“Oh. Uh. Good,” Yuuri murmurs, “I'm glad. Th-that's uh...That's – ”

“ _ **Good**_?” Victor finishes. Yuuri's heart nervously flits in his chest, but the tease makes him gasp out a short laugh and he feels the snake in his stomach uncoil at Victor's smile. It's warm, but there's a fragility to it that reminds him he may not be the only one who feels bad about what happened.

“Right,” Yuuri replies, looking down at his hands again. His cheeks burn pleasantly, and Victor takes another sip of his tea, humming.

One of the mobiles hanging from the ceiling tingles, like the bell a fairy would ring, and both Yuuri and Victor stare up at it as the gold fan attached to it spins, a ruby swinging from side to side.

“Someone's trying to find my castle,” Victor explains, puzzled, “I wonder who it is?”

Yuuri sits up straighter, eyes wide in remembrance. The dripping body by the sea, the heavy sound that echoed in his ears. “I saw the henchmen of the Wizard of the Wastes in the harbour!” he blurts out, leaning forward.

Victor looks over at him, smile polite but confused. He blinks. Tilts his head to the side. “Who?”

Yuuri stares back at him owlishly. He furrows his brow, tries to grasp what he just heard. “The Wizard of the Wastes?”

Victor's smile remains, but his confusion deepens. “Okay?” he says, “Should I know who that is?”

Yuuri stares at him in disbelief. He can't be serious. So many thoughts swim through Yuuri's head at once, threatening to overflow him and his chest seizes, stomach churning. What does he mean? Does he not realize what's going on? That Yuuri has been cursed this whole time? That the Wizard of the Wastes is one of the nastiest, most arrogant wizards of the age?

That he was the one to bend Yuuri's back and put the ache in his bones and shrivel his skin?

Does Victor know nothing of the problems outside his castle?

Yuuri wants to simultaneously scream at Victor and bury his face in his leathery hands. Let the world swallow him.

The pieces slowly fall into place – the way the wizard had desperately tried to say his name as many times as possible so it would stick, the way he constantly played up his rivalry with Victor, the way the Wizard of the Wastes demanded Yuuri couldn't talk about the curse that had been bestowed upon him but to always remember who gave it to him.

_**Oh.** _

No wonder he hates Victor.

“His name is J.J.?” Yuuri ventures, his voice rising hopefully.

Victor squints, stares out into the middle distance. He chews his bottom lip between his teeth and he's trying, but the memory must be distant, if the pinch between his eyebrows is to be believed. “The Leroy kid?”

Yuuri shrugs. “All he sai– ” Yuuri's tongue suddenly sticks to the roof of his mouth, swelling, and Yuuri gags as his teeth clamp shut, mortar filling his gums. He feels his throat close and for a moment he's terrified. His body is not his own anymore and he feels heavy, like the air itself is weighing him down.

He's drowning on nothing, his throat filling with air that won't reach his lungs.

The gagging sound he makes scraps his throat.

It eases after several seconds, and he sucks in air so quickly it gets stuck in his chest and he coughs into his arm, tears pricking his eyes.

Right. _**Curse**_.

“I have no idea,” Yuuri croaks, shifting his weight in the chair. Victor's eyes narrow and there's a darkness there Yuuri doesn't recognize. It gives him chills.

Victor, thankfully, sighs and flops back down onto the bed, draping an arm over his eyes dramatically. “I have to report to the palace as both Pendragon _**and**_ Jenkins,” he whines.

Yuuri sinks back into his chair. Takes a breath. Steadies his nerves. “How many aliases do you have anyway?” he wonders.

“As many as I need to keep my freedom,” Victor responds, tremulous, “That's all I want.”

Yuuri bites the inside of his cheek, plays with his fingers.

“Can you refuse the king's invitation?”

Victor shifts, shaking his head. He points wordlessly to a signed parchment on the wall, stabbed with holes and frayed with burnt edges, but still entirely readable. Yuuri presses his lips together at the pair of golden, studded scissors embedded in it.

Not a treasured document, huh?

“I took an oath when I joined the Royal Academy,” Victor explains, “I _**must**_ report to the palace when summoned.”

Yuuri hums, thoughtfully, and Victor sighs in despondence. “You know, maybe you _**should**_ see the king.”

Victor sits up immediately, his silver hair swaying at his shoulders. “ _ **What**_?!” he snaps.

Yuuri straightens holding up his hands in a placating motion. “I'm n-not saying you fight in the _**war**_ or anything,” Yuuri remedies, “Just...Give him a peace of your mind?” Victor purses his lips but says nothing, and Yuuri takes that as a sign to continue. “Tell him this war is pointless and that you refuse to take part.”

Victor rolls his eyes, but Yuuri can see a spark of thought in them as he stares. Somehow, he's not comforted by it.

“Why don't you go to the palace for me?” Victor counters.

Yuuri splutters, mouth falling open. “Hah?”

Victor steeples his fingers, nodding as he thinks about it while completely ignoring Yuuri's mortified expression. “Yeah, just say you're Pendragon's father...And your son is too afraid to show his face!” He snaps his fingers triumphantly, poking Yuuri's wrinkled nose. His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes and Yuuri's heart stutters. “Maybe then Yakov will finally give up on me!”

Yuuri swallows hard and stares down the barrel of Victor's extended finger.

He can tell by the delight in Victor's voice that this is a bad idea.

And he knows he'll follow.

_**Damn**_.

“Wh-who's Yakov?” Yuuri squeaks.

* * *

Before Yuuri's mind can catch up to him, he's in the living room, stuffing his straw hat over the balding spot on the top of his head. His deep blue shirt feels far too clean and Victor's unmistakable lilac smell is all around him as the wizard flits about, tugging at Yuuri's long sleeves and poking Yuuri's pudgy thighs through his black trousers.

Yuuri shoots him a glare and Victor shrinks under his scrutiny.

“Take care of him, Yurio,” Yuuri barks, trying to stand as straight as his hunched shoulders will allow. The front door feels much more massive now that he stands before it, and he sucks in a slow breath through his nose, his knobbly hand gripping the heavy iron of the door handle.

Breathe, Yuuri. Play the role.

_**Just don't be you and you'll be fine.** _

A presence at his back startles him and he goes stiff as one of Victor's long arms tenderly grabs his hand.

Yuuri's heart flutters as he catches Victor's expression out of the corner of his eye. He seems peaceful, warm. There's not enough space, not enough distance, and Yuuri tries in vain to keep his breathing level, no matter how impossible it is for him to look away.

Yuuri swallows, face burning, and stares pointedly at the door handle.

Victor's voice caresses Yuuri's ear, low and kind, and his hand is like a kiss to his cracked and leathery skin. “This charm will guarantee your safe return,” he says barely louder than a whisper. It takes Yuuri a moment to realize Victor has slipped something onto his finger, too lost in Victor's smile and the light in his eyes. A band of dull silver with a glimmering jewel at its center, embossed with a language Yuuri can't read, and just like Victor it pulsates a warmth Yuuri is sure can't just be his imagination. “Don't worry,” Victor continues, “I'll follow behind you in disguise.”

Victor removes himself from Yuuri's back and Yuuri isn't sure whether the loss is welcomed or not.

He swallows, straightens his glasses, turns the knob, and steps out onto the busy street.

Kingsbury is bustling.

The roars of car engines, motorcycles and the whirring engines of flying bicycles is only matched by the hum of people, going about their daily business in the country's capital city. The buildings are high and made of stone and brick with smoke stacks and chimneys pointing towards the clouds, spewing into the air. A clock tower chimes in the distance and the marble of its face can be seen even from Yuuri's spot in the square. Among the domed and mansard roofs there are sloped, upturned ones, and though they differ in colours and style, it fits the thrumming heartbeat of the city – busy, diverse, and all-embracing.

A smog sits over the capital, but the humidity does little to still the life that seems to breathe right through the city's cobbled streets. There are people laughing, flags waving. A snake charmer is on the street corner, entertaining a diverse group who are completely entranced by the man's shaved head, his toothy grin, and the way the snake curls quietly around his arm. An old man in an elaborate headdress, large beads in his hands, is being pulled around by a rickshaw and his driver gives Yuuri a small bow as he races by.

Yuuri surveys the area, sees a massive, glittering Victorian roof in the distance and starts walking.

He passes many people on his way to the palace, but they pay him no mind despite his hard set stare and his clenched jaw. Maybe he looks too severe to approach, but severe is something Yuuri can live with if it means no one notices how much his hands are shaking.

Yuuri tries to distract himself with other things, like the many wood and cloth signs that line the shopping district, and tries to make several of them out. Kingsbury's language is similar to his hometown – the sloping letters and calligraphy are close enough that Yuuri can make out simple things like “food” and “clothes” but there are so many that are lost on him that he doubts he could hold a decent conversation with anyone around. Instead he continues to walk with purpose, trying to ignore the dull churning of his stomach and the waves of cold shivering through him.

As Yuuri rounds another corner a dog, brown fur curled and tongue out, ducks out from behind a food stall and begins trotting beside him, tail swishing. It's a poodle, tall enough to be just below Yuuri's frail hip, and it dutifully sits down at his feet when Yuuri slows to a stop.

Yuuri glances at the dog, takes note of his carefully groomed fur and his wide-eyed, dopey expression, and raises an eyebrow. The dog looks back up at him and his tail waggles back and forth furiously. The dog opens his fluffy jowls and lets out a terribly pathetic sound, like a wheeze from an old pair of lungs.

Didn't Victor say he was going to follow him in disguise?

Yuuri's eyes narrow. “Victor?” he whispers. The dog's ears perk up and his tail is like a whirlwind, knocking over a terribly suspicious peony. Yuuri groans and trudges on, the dog falling into step at his side. “Couldn't you think of something more useful?”

But then, the rumbling starts. Yuuri's blood turns glacial, the hairs rising on the back of his neck. He doesn't need to guess what it belongs to, who it answers to. It draws closer and it's like the earth shakes with hundreds of thundering hooves, the thumping deep and sonorous. The dog at his side growls, but Yuuri keeps his stride even, though his heart is pounding.

A carriage – covered in black velvet and adorned with gold and silver tassels – sidles up beside Yuuri. The horses dragging it are huge, larger than they have any right to be, and their dripping, sopping, gooey bodies remind Yuuri of the bastard's henchmen, oozing and ceaselessly dark. Sitting on the soft leather of the carriage is the Wizard of the Wastes in all his glory, jet black hair styled and perfect. His long legs are crossed and his lavender suit and purple embellishments shimmer in the sunlight.

Even though he's sitting, Yuuri can tell he's still just as tall as he remembers, towering several feet over any normal person.

His grin, as always, is blinding.

Yuuri clenches his fists at his sides. Tries to steady his heart.

“Look who's here!” J.J. exclaims, his smirk sharp like a crocodiles, “The tacky little boy from the hat shop. How's our dear Victor?”

“He's acting like a big baby,” Yuuri replies coolly, keeping his eyes front, “And he's working me to the bone as his housekeeper.”

J.J. barks out a laugh that bares his teeth. “Incredible! So tell me, what business do you have here at the palace?”

“Job hunting. I'm tired of working for Vi – ”

“ _ **I**_ received a royal invitation!” J.J. declares with a flourish, “Yakov must have finally realized how incredible my power is.”

Yuuri purses his lips. “If you're so great why don't you break the spell you put on me?” J.J. doesn't even look down at him as he gives a dismissive wave.

“I only know how to cast curses, not break them,” he replies, fixing the quaff in his hair, “Now, if you'll excuse me.” His horses break into a gallop and deposit him elegantly in front of the large, glass and cedar doors of the palace, leaving Yuuri at least forty paces behind.

Yuuri puffs out his chest, gritting his teeth, and his nails cut into his palms.

What an _**asshole**_.

The palace, at least, is more reserved than he originally thought. Despite the Victorian architecture and the terrace on the second floor, it looks more like a brick mansion from his hometown than the opulent palace of a royal high wizard.

J.J. ducks inside as Yuuri makes his way up the small flight of stairs to the landing, passing by a giant, fragrant magnolia tree. The stone is oppressively hot, warmed by the sun, but Yuuri still hesitates as he reaches the top step, breathing in the sticky air.

He goes over what he planned to say in his head several more times. The excuse he and Victor discussed.

Easy. Simple. Everything will be fine.

_**Just don't be you.** _

Yuuri forces air into his lungs and shoves the doors open, the dog close on his heels.

The main hall is much larger than it looked from the outside, stretched on both sides, and the checkered flooring is blindingly clean. J.J. is standing just inside, towering high but nowhere close to the ceiling. There are two doors on the opposite end of the hall, but no one else.

Nothing else.

The hall echoes with his footsteps and J.J. gives Yuuri a passing glance before peering at the distant doors.

“It's a puzzle,” J.J. says without prompting, “I've heard Yakov set up challenges for all his guests.” He shoots Yuuri a terribly broad smile. His passivity makes the ice below Yuuri's skin warm to a simmer and he grows tense thinking about it. It churns and churns, rising in his throat like bile.

“What happens if we chose wrong?” Yuuri wonders stiffly, crossing his arms to stop his hands from shaking.

“No idea,” J.J. says, scratching his chin, oblivious.

Yuuri sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. “Maybe if I was _**younger**_ I'd be able to help you out.”

“I told you,” J.J. says snootily, “I don't know how.”

Yuuri squares his shoulders. “What do you mean _**you don't know**_ _**how**_?” he snaps.

J.J. looks surprised by the outburst and it only makes the blood in Yuuri's veins run hotter.

“I just didn't bother learning it,” J.J. says, puzzled.

“Why?”

“Because why would _ **I**_ need to know how to reverse a curse?”

Yuuri wants to pull his hair out. “What if _**you**_ get cursed?”

“But I won't,” J.J. replies confidently, “I'm too good to get cursed.”

“What if you _**do**_ , though?”

“But I _**won't**_.”

Yuuri is flabbergasted, annoyed. He wants so badly to smack J.J. straight in the jaw, to jettison the frustration coiling in his gut out onto J.J.'s smirking, dumb face, but some quiet voice in the back of his mind pipes up and the flames in his chest dwindle.

“So you just never learned?” Yuuri starts slowly, “Not even to be prepared?”

“Of course!” J.J. replies emphatically, “Why worry about something that will never happen?” His smile is wide, foolhardy, and the fire in Yuuri's chest gets completely snuffed out. “After all, who would curse _**me**_ , The Magnificent Wizard of the Wastes?” J.J. holds up three fingers on each hand, arms crisscrossed over his chest, and Yuuri realizes that J.J. may just be one of the dumbest people he has ever met.

Yuuri pinches the bridge of his nose. Uses his thumb and forefinger to rub his temple. He takes a breath.

“So, the puzzle – ”

J.J. eagerly snaps to attention. “So, there's two doors right?” he begins. Yuuri nods. He knows already where this is going, but J.J. is too excited to be deterred and Yuuri doesn't plan on stopping him. “And there's _**two of us**_ , right? So, why don't we just _**go through the doors at the same time**_?”

Yuuri's breath is controlled, his smile strained. “Incredible. I can't believe you figured it out all on your own.”

J.J. scoffs with pride, a hand on his chest. “It was simple, really – ”

Yuuri lets him continue on his tirade as they walk towards the doors, the air getting thicker as they approach. J.J., unperturbed, takes a hold of his door handle and shoots Yuuri a foolhardy grin. Yuuri rolls his eyes and they take the plunge in together, letting the darkness within engulf them.

Mirrors.

Everywhere Yuuri looks there is another Yuuri looking back at him – a hunched over, wrinkled, husk of a human with crooked glasses and a large nose. Who's clothes are ill-fitting and old like he is, frayed and torn.

Yuuri can hear his heartbeat, his breathing too, and a numbness settles in his fingers.

_**Breathe, Yuuri. They're only mirrors.** _

Only a reminder of how _**ugly**_ he is. How worthless.

There's a lump in is throat he can't push back.

The dog whimpers at his side but no matter how far he walks, how many turns he takes, the mirrors are there, his face is there. The walls are too close the ceiling is too low the light is too dim and the other Yuuri's are too close and Yuuri cant remember if he's still moving anymore.

Yuuri's vision swims.

_**I can't focus.** _

Yuuri inhales sharply, but the air doesn't reach his lungs.

_**My chest hurts.** _

Yuuri is paralyzed, his whole body shaking. Why can't he stop shaking?

_**Can't breathe.** _

There's a pressure on his shoulder, warm and very real, and Yuuri swallows the gasp that crawls up his throat.

A woman, roughly taller than Yuuri with short auburn hair, squeezes his shoulder and her smile eases the flood of panic, at least momentarily. “This way,” she says.

Everything is still blurred, still muddled and still feels a little distant, but the grip the stranger has around his wrist is something to focus on and Yuuri stares at her white gloves, the blue of her coat and its red trimmings. Her red and gold doublet. The white cravat around her neck. She reminds him of a flickering, unwieldy fire or the precarious placing of an icicle – stunning, but deadly. The hilt of the rapier on her hip is engraved with a name, _**Mila**_ , and at least now Yuuri can thank her properly when he gets the chance.

She leads him through silently, one hand trailing along the glass to her left, and in no time at all she pushes one of the mirrors in.

Something quietly clicks and the glass swings away with ease, opening up to hot, sticky air and a sharp, earthy scent.

Yuuri blinks slowly, adjusting to the overwhelming light. He realizes they are in a huge greenhouse, covered in gleaming glass and outlined with iron pillars and crosses. The domed ceiling is high above them and the sunlight is warm and inviting.

Plants of all shapes, colours and smells surround them, organized in neat lines, and Yuuri finally feels the shaking of his hands subside.

Mila leads him to a stool further in, positioned across from a old, severe looking man on a luxurious armchair. His arms are crossed and the hat pulled low over his brow draws fierce shadows across his already scowling face.

Mila shoots him an almost mocking salute before rushing off, but the old man barely acknowledges her, his grave frown focused on Yuuri. The greenhouse doesn't feel as inviting when Yuuri meets his stony eyes and he quickly looks away.

“Have a seat,” he gravels, and Yuuri tries to swallow the lump in his throat as he obeys, fixing the front of his shirt. “My name is Master Yakov. I am the king's head sorcerer.” The dog leaves Yuuri's side, practically skipping over to Yakov's chair and plopping down beside his feet. He promptly falls asleep, quietly snoring.

Yuuri's throat constricts, but he forces a smile. “Is that your dog?” he asks politely.

“He used to be Vitya's. I had him escort you here.”

A heaviness settles in his stomach, but Yuuri flexes his hands on his trousers and forces a short laugh. “Oh.” Of course.

“I take it Victor wont be joining us?” Yakov asks, getting straight to the point.

Yuuri sucks in a breath. Tries to remember what excuse they had decided on. His eyes flit between the flowers beyond Yakov's shoulder and the dog sleeping at his feet.

“H-He's such a lazy son he sent me instead!” Yuuri rushes out, voice creaking. Yuuri wrings his fingers in his lap, picking at the skin near one of his nails. “The k-king would find him useless.”

Yakov's glare is palpable and Yuuri refuses to meet it. “Victor was the last apprentice I ever took on,” Yakov says solemnly. Yuuri smooths his hands over his knees, trying to control his heartbeat. Trying to focus on Yakov's words. “I've never seen such a gifted student. I thought I had found someone talented enough to replace me. Then, his heart was stolen by a demon and he never returned to finish his apprenticeship.” Yuuri clutches the fabric of his trousers, hoping it'll stop his hands from shaking. “Mr. Pendragon?”

Yuuri jumps, eyes wide. “Yes?”

Yakov's scowl is scorching but Yuuri is frozen by it, chilled by his words and his icy stare. “That boy is extremely dangerous. He is far too powerful for someone without a heart. He uses his magic for entirely selfish reasons, and if he stays selfish – ” he waves his hand and Yuuri forgets to breathe, “ - then he'll end up just like the Wizard of the Wastes.”

Mila returns, dragging in a boy by his ear. He's dressed in a fitted, glimmering purple suit and barely stands up to Yuuri's chest. His arms are crossed and he huffs in frustration, shoving Mila off before she disappears back into the ether.

He plops petulantly onto the ground and rudely shows his back to both Yuuri and Yakov, though Yuuri definitely catches the pooling of tears in his eyes.

“I returned him to the age he really is,” Yakov explains. J.J. curls in on himself, bringing his knobby knees up to his chest, and Yuuri wishes he could reach out and console his trembling shoulders.

“He once was a promising study before he ran off with one of our most powerful spell-books, giving in to greed and selfishness. Victor is the same.” Yuuri's gaze snaps back at the mention of Victor's name and something in his stomach twists. “Our kingdom can no longer afford to turn a blind eye to these disreputable witches and wizards.” The words spit from Yakov's mouth like their taste is rotten, and Yuuri grips his knees tightly. “If Victor returns to me and uses his magic to serve the kingdom I will show him how to break from his demon. If not I'll strip him of all his powers, just like him.”

It's a punch to the gut. The freeze melts and gives way to fire and Yuuri stands on shaky legs, fists tight. Something snaps. His voice wavers, his breath is a hiss and his pounding heart clogs his brain and drowns out his thoughts. Acid slides up his throat. “That's enough!” he shouts, causing everyone but Yakov to jump, “Now I know why Victor was so concerned about coming here. It's a _**trap**_!”

Yuuri's body is shivering, pulsing with anger. His mind whirls and everything yells at him to stop, to sit down and take his place with the flowers on the wall, to fade, but there's a voice in him that's tired of fading, tired of sitting still.

“You lure people here with an invitation from the king and then you strip them of all their powers!” Yuuri stands straighter, feels the coal in his joints fuel him and he fixes his glasses. “Victor would never be so heartless. He may be selfish and overly dramatic, but his intentions are good. He just wants to be free.”

Yuuri is overwhelmed with the memory of the gentle scent of lilacs, Victor's soft touches, his small encouragements and gentle teasings. The warmth behind the coolness of his eyes, the crinkle of his smile. Victor doesn't need to know how long Yuuri has wanted to be near him, but he will let Yakov know. There is someone out there who believes in Victor Nikiforov: believes in his childish ideals and his stupid plans and his selfish dreams.

Yuuri's words can't be stopped; they demand to be heard just like his yearnings demand to be felt.

“Victor won't come here,” Yuuri decides, “He doesn't need your help.” Yuuri's voice trembles still but there's a strength to it now, a determination he can't hold back. “He can fix his problems with his demons on his own.”

Yakov steeples his fingers and leans back.

“So then, you're in love with Victor.”

Yakov's words strike him to the core. Yuuri's heart stops. His breath stills.

He recoils.

He retreats.

His resolve cools rapidly.

This is not how he wanted this to go.

This is not how this was supposed to go.

It was supposed to be simple and he was just supposed to walk out and –

_**And then you got caught up in yourself and messed things up why are you always messing up, Yuuri?** _

J.J. looks up suddenly, no longer lost in his thoughts. “Is Victor here?” he chirps, face lighting up as he grabs onto the hem of Yuuri's shirt, “I'm going to beat him! Then he'll finally take me seriously. Where is he?!”

Yuuri places a hand on J.J.'s shoulder, trying to calm the boy's overactive imagination. “Victor isn't coming, okay?” he hushes.

“Don't be so sure,” Yakov murmurs, sitting back in his chair. Yuuri turns to him, heart catching in his throat. “We have _**you**_ here, Mr. Pendragon.”

Yuuri's eyes widen, ears burning.

Part of him is certain Yakov must be joking. Yuuri doesn't mean anything to anyone. Yuuri is inconsequential, that's why Victor sent him here in the first place, right? To take the fall for him? To be a distraction while Victor escapes with the castle? Yuuri knows he doesn't mean that much to Victor. Yuuri is ugly. Boring. Good at cleaning and hats and nothing else. He has nothing to offer someone like Victor. Someone so beautiful and powerful and radiant. Yuuri isn't good enough to be loved.

Right?

He thinks about Victor's smile before he left, about his closeness and his warmth. About Victor's lingering touch and...and he knew exactly what that smile meant for a moment before the night of his thoughts eclipsed the light Victor cast.

This is a trap.

And Yakov was handed his bait on a silver platter.

Air refuses to reach Yuuri's lungs.

The whirring of an engine outside barely registers and it takes Yuuri several long moments to focus on the man who jumps off the flying machine, stomping the greenhouse door with great purpose. His black hair is pushed back with a quiff and his expression is severe, despite his mostly lean build.

His black uniform is embellished with purples and blues, adorned with several medals and the unmistakable King's seal.

Yuuri is frozen. The King gives him a cursory glance with his stony blue eyes before turning back to Yakov.

“How are you feeling?” he says, voice low and resonant.

“Fine, your majesty.”

The King places a hand on his hip casually, but the smile he gives doesn't suit the lines of his face. “I thought I'd drop by, rather than sit through a dull war meeting.”

“What an honor, King Georgi.” The King's stare shifts to Yuuri and he shrinks beneath it, bowing his head politely to avert his gaze.

“Who are your guests?”

“This is Vitya's father,” Yakov clarifies, “Mr. Pendragon.”

He turns his attention to Yuuri completely and Yuuri is struck by his calm demeanor. There's an ease that settles over him that is all too welcome. “Thanks for coming,” Georgi says, taking a step closer, “But I've decided not to use magic to win this war. We have tried using Yakov's magic to protect our palace from the enemies bombs, but the bombs fall on civilian homes instead.” He chuckles, self-deprecatingly, “That's the problem with magic, right Yakov?”

Yakov smirks. “Well put, your majesty.”

A door, palace side, swings open and the King, glaring, rushes into the room, quickly followed by Mila who looks amused but exhausted, like someone dealing with an overactive child.

Yuuri is bewildered. Georgi looks the exact same – same uniform, same hair, same deep-set eyes – but his glare is deep and he stomps heavily in his leather boots.

“Yakov!” Georgi barks, stopping by the sorcerer's chair, “Have we heard anything from the neighboring Kingdom?” His voice drops, but Yuuri can just make the words out. “Anything from Anya?” Yakov shakes his head and the King sniffles loudly, snapping to attention. “W-well, good!” he chokes out, turning on his heel. “I didn't want to talk to her anyway...”

The King hurriedly wipes his eyes and Yuuri can't believe what he's seeing. “Mila!” he shouts, voice penetrating. He motions for her to follow and Yuuri can see her roll her eyes, flashing Yakov a smile before retreating with the King back into the palace.

The silence is heavy. Yuuri can't stop the chill that crawls up his spine, the way the humid air sticks to his throat.

Yakov breaks the silence first, fixing his companion with an even glare. “That's a weak disguise, Vitya. Didn't I teach you better?”

In the blink of an eye the King's visage is gone and Victor's silver hair, slender frame, and gentle voice emerges from where the King once stood. He wraps an arm around Yuuri's shoulders and Yuuri's stomach flips at the gentle, reassuring squeeze he gives Yuuri's arm. “I wasn't trying to outwit you,” Victor declares, “I just reported when summoned. Now, my father and I will go.”

Yakov stomps his foot on the ground and it rings endlessly in Yuuri's ears. The green fades from his vision and the air becomes oppressive, thick. Heavy. Cold. At first Yuuri feels like he's sinking, but it becomes abundantly clear that there's something wrapped around his leg, dragging him further and further down. It slides around his calf, up his chest, around his throat and there's flashes that light up like fireworks and smoke that burns his eyes and he can't breathe, he can't...

Maybe it'll be fine. Maybe he'll fall back into his old home and his old life and everything will be simple.

He'll fade to black. Disappear into the background.

He chokes on nothing, shakes. No, no he's going to fall, he's going to get dragged down into whatever intolerable frozen wasteland is below them and there won't be any reprieve, there won't be anyone there for him he'll just –

“I'm here,” Victor whispers, and somehow Yuuri hears it over the ringing of the air and the pounding of his heart and it's solid, strong. Victor's grip on his shoulder tightens and he pulls Yuuri into his chest, shielding him. He's firm, tangible. “I've got you,” Victor breathes. Yuuri fists his hands into Victor's shirt, buries his nose in the fabric, and the smell of lilacs shocks his system. The world gradually slows to the sound of Victor's heartbeat, strong and steady, and it grounds him. Yuuri shudders and Victor waits for him to take a breath.

Yuuri opens his eyes. They're floating in the air, hundreds of feet above the ground, and Yuuri's grip on Victor's shirt tightens. A cloud passes through them, cool vapor chilling their skin.

There's a voice in the distance, floating on the wind, and it caresses them like a dead hand would; cold and numbing. “It's time to show everyone what you really are, Vitya.”

Yuuri tries desperately to adjust to the wind whipping around him, to the height and the noise, but he can barely focus. There's a distant hum, high-pitched and whining, and Yuuri can make out words but not what they mean. The flashes continue all around, sporadic, and they shimmer in the air. Yuuri swears he can see limbs, but they disappear just as quickly as they come. Victor shifts under his hands, his chest heaving, and Yuuri's gaze flies to his face.

He's pinched his brows in concentration, blue eyes steely, and his smirk is strained.

Victor growls, low and venomous, and it sends a shock through Yuuri's system. Victor clenches his jaw and Yuuri feels his nails slice through the fabric of his shirt, digging into his shoulder.

Something's wrong.

Victor cracks his neck and squeezes his eyes shut, body shivering under Yuuri's hands. Yuuri can feel his muscles contract, his gasping breath, the snarl that crawls up Victor's throat and vibrates beneath his skin.

Something shoots out from Victor's back and he doubles over, letting out a violent howl. Yuuri catches the sprouting of feathers on Victor's chest, dull and gray and not at all like the gloss of his hair, and dear God, those are wings sprouting from his back and –

Victor writhes, convulses, and Yuuri frantically tries to hold on to him, to keep him steady, to keep him _**here**_.

The humming is louder, pounding the air with its song, and Yuuri can't even hear himself as he calls out Victor's name.

Victor's eyes meet his. Wide. Frightened.

Yuuri shakes his head. This time, he doesn't break their contact.

His trembling fingers reach up to cup Victor's face, thumbs smoothing over the apples of his cheeks and Victor leans into the touch, breathing staggered.

“Let's go home,” Yuuri murmurs.

Everything that happens next is a blur: Victor's arms wrap tightly around Yuuri's small frame and when they soar it's like the air is being trapped behind them, sucked out of their lungs and plastered to the floor. They slam hard onto Victor's flying bicycle and take off, but Yuuri can't quite comprehend it. It's like he's in a trance: he can hear his heart pounding, can hear Victor comment something to J.J. as he clambers into his chair and he catches Victor's squeal of delight as Makkachin licks his face, but the words sound so distant.

It's like he's floating, detached. Watching the group fly from above even though he can feel the freezing metal of his seat and Victor's calming hand on his arm.

Victor leans down, breath warm on his neck, and rests his chin on Yuuri's shoulder. “It should wear off soon,” he says, as if he's reading Yuuri's mind. All Yuuri does is hum lightly in response. “You know, You really saved me, Yuuri.” he continues, smiling against Yuuri's cheek. Yuuri's heart staccatos behind his ribs and it's the most he's felt since they crashed through the ceiling.

Victor whispers a thank you and when they part, when Yuuri flies back to the castle, when Yuuri is greeted by Yurio and Christophe with waiting arms, he holds onto Victor's words and wonders if his ears will ever stop burning from the praise.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Welcome to chapter 5 everyone, and one of the lines that inspired the whole AU. Haha!  
> Also, I modeled both Kingsbury and Porthaven off of different cities, rather than the vaguely European ones the movie and books describe. Porthaven is based off of Tangier in Morocco, while Kingsbury is based off of Shanghai. Yakov’s palace is actually based of the Children’s Palace!  
> Sorry if this chapter deviated a little more from the film/book - I couldn’t find a good reason for J.J. to be overweight and the stairs didn’t seem like much of a challenge otherwise. Hopefully the maze in the castle didn’t feel completely out of place.  
> There is also now a tentative chapter number - I may change it if I think of other scenes to add or if I split a later one.  
> As always, let me know what you all think but either commenting, kudo-ing, or hitting me up on my tumblr! I live for feedback and I adore hearing from you guys.


	6. In a Field of Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”  
> \- Dr. Seuss

The castle lurches, lumbers and creaks as Yuuri tries to sleep, but the mattress pokes his back in all the wrong places and the ground adds unnecessary extra pressure. He slides in and out of consciousness, listening to the gentle crackling of Christophe's fire, until the front door clicks open and Yuuri is sure his heart stops. His body stiff.

Heavy, wet footsteps fall dully on the floor and Yuuri forces his eyes closed. Something tells him he shouldn't open them – a thickness that settles in the air and presses him down into the mattress.

Chistophe crackles, his voice hushed but alarmed. “This is bad,” he hisses, “You've gone too far, Victor.”

A stench fills the air as Christophe's answer, sickeningly dry and sweetly metallic. Yuuri's muscles don't even protest as he whips out of bed just in time to see Victor's hunched shadow disappear up the stairs. The smell burns his eyes, stings his throat, and Yuuri feels like gagging at the sight before him.

There's blood and feathers trailing to the steps, like a wounded bird tossed around by a hungry cat, and Yuuri reaches out to the dull gray plumage with shaking fingers.

It disintegrates at his touch, turning into a pile of putrid ash.

The light from the fire is gentle and warm, but none of it reaches Yuuri's chilled skin as he leans over the edge of his mattress, slipping his boots hurriedly onto his feet.

Everything feels distant like the world is both moving in slow motion and too fast. Yuuri isn't sure if his vision tunnels or if it's just an effect of his glasses in the dark as he makes his way up the stairs, but it is simultaneously too long a trek and too short a climb for his pounding heart.

The air on the second floor is dense like a fog; humid and weighty. It doesn't even seem like Yuuri's eyes adjust to the onslaught of darkness, he just knows instinctively where to go and lets invisible lines pull him further into the endless gloom.

He reaches Victor's bedroom door in what feels like no time at all, and his long fingers hesitate, skimming the handle.

“Victor?” he hazards, but his voice is far away and all Yuuri gets in response is the sound of rasping breath, like wind through the rafters.

Yuuri takes a moment. Braces himself.

The door opens with a gentle push and Yuuri nearly staggers back at what's inside.

Victor's room is cavernous, destroyed, empty. It's like a long cave now, his decorations and colorful knickknacks embedded in the mud walls and ceiling haphazardly, like they were thrown about in a tantrum.

Yuuri does not linger on them. The wind blows past him, through him, and he feels none of it.

He follows Victor's breathing, his rasping sighs, and walks on nothing.

Before him is a massive shape, writhing and curled in on itself. The feathers along its body are long, gray, and its huge chest heaves with every breath.

Yuuri's heart clenches, but he steps forward. “Victor?” he breathes, reaching a hand out, “Are you in pain?” The body shudders, shies away from his hand, and drags long claws against the wall. Yuuri swallows hard, heart hammering. “Tell me what's happening.”

“Go away...” The figure growls and Yuuri catches the sharp white of long teeth, protruding from a huge jowl. Everything inside him tells him to step back, to reanalyze and approach from a different angle, to get _**help**_ but something spurs him on, forces his mouth to keep moving. Maybe if he does, he can keep Victor here.

“No, I'm not going away!” he says resoundingly, fists clenched at his sides, “I'm going to help you break this spell that you're under.”

The creature shifts, feathers fluttering and shimmering in an sickly way. “You?” he wheezes, voice grating his throat, “You can't even break your own spell.”

Yuuri's eyes burn, voice wavering. He can't stop anything he says, his mouth unwieldy and loose and heavy all at once. He barely hears himself over the roar of the wind and it's like he's watching it all play out below him even though he's still standing on the ground. “But you don't understand, I love y- ”

“You're too late,” Victor snarls. The wind whips at Yuuri's clothes, burns and shrivels his skin and Victor takes off into the night, leaving Yuuri alone at a gaping maw overlooking the darkness.

Yuuri's voice is raw, he's crying, but he can't move. “Victor!”

The clanging of water in old pipes wakes Yuuri with a start, but his heart is still back in that darkness, back in that dream, beating a terrifying rhythm in his chest. His old muscles complain when he suddenly stands, but his eyes are on the stairs, his breath caught in his throat.

He tries to remind himself to breathe, and distantly he can hear Yurio and J.J., complaining about something over the crackle of the fire.

“Victor just got in,” Christophe says. His voice is surprisingly clear and it cleanly cuts through Yuuri's panic. Yuuri sits back down on the lumpy mattress with a sigh, hand to his clammy temple.

A dream. Of course it was a dream.

_**Thank God.** _

“How did he look?” Yuuri asks hoarsely.

Christophe's sympathetic smile slips, his stare turning solemn. “Not good. You need to figure out to break this spell quick, Yuuri.”

Yuuri places his hands on his knees, watching as his fingers trace the patterns of his flannel pajamas. “He'll turn into a monster, won't he?” he murmurs.

“You know I can't give the details of the curse,” Christophe sighs, chin propped up on a half scorched log.

Yuuri curls his fingers, making a fist. “Do you know what Yakov said?” He looks up, meets Chistophe's hazel stare with a level one of his own. “He said Victor's heart was stolen by a demon.”

Chistophe slowly blows smoke out through his nose. “I _**can't**_ tell you, Yuuri.”

An unusual flare of anger and frustration runs through him and Yuuri stands, bones creaking, as he glares down at a fire that withers beneath his gaze. How dare he? How _**dare**_ he?! This is not the time for games or trickery or secrets. Yuuri wants to scream, wants to fight, wants to stop the stammering of his heart in his chest and all he thinks of is _**monster**_ and every time he closes his eyes he sees that mass of feathers and teeth and hears the pain in Victor's voice and god _**Victor**_. Victor is drifting from him and he's like water and Yuuri can't catch him; he slips through the crevices and cracks in Yuuri's wrinkled hands.

Yuuri's eyes burn. The panic gives him some sort of haughty courage, even though his hands are shaking.

“What if I dump a bucket of cold water on you?” he threatens.

If Yuuri is fire, then Christophe is ice and his look is level and controlled, snuffing out Yuuri's flames. “If you drown me,” he warns, “Victor dies, too.”

An agitated, high-pitched shriek startles them both and J.J. flies down the stairs, Yurio hot on his heels. They both look like absolute messes: J.J. is sopping wet in what looks like different colours of dye, his purple shirt splotched with green and black and Yurio is covered in dust and flour. The taller of the two reaches the landing first and slides behind Yuuri, using him as a human shield, and Yuuri can already feel his temple prickle with an oncoming headache.

Yurio jumps down the last three steps, his hair tousled and expression murderous. He stands before Yuuri, clutching the backhand of a broom with vicious ferocity.

Before Yuuri can even ask _**why**_ , J.J.'s muffled voice splutters into life behind him.

“Victor promised me years ago that I would get this castle!” he shouts petulantly.

Yurio's flush is so violent that Yuuri can see it even through the white powder streaked on his cheeks. “He did _**not**_!”

“Yes he _**did**_!” J.J. insists, gripping tightly to Yuuri's shirt, “He said if I found his heart then I could have the castle!”

Yuuri's breath catches at the word and he's reminded of Yakov's smugness the other day, the hot realization of _**exactly**_ where Victor's heart lies.

His stomach flips and his eyes quickly dart to the ground, a flush burning his neck.

Christophe's fire snaps at his side.

Yurio bristles, face twisted into a terrifyingly upset pout. “Fine,” he spits, “Then where _**is**_ it?”

J.J. tenses behind him and Yuuri feels the boy shift to his other foot. “It's here somewhere!”

Yurio puffs out his chest, brandishing the broom with more intent. “See?! I knew you were lying.”

“I know the _**location**_ ,” J.J. demands, “That should be enough.”

“That doesn't count!”

“Says who? _**You**_?”

Yurio's _**squawks**_ in agitation and turns his furious glare to Yuuri, who swallows thickly at the menacing gaze.

“Tell him he's _**wrong**_ , Yuuri,” Yurio commands, poking his weapon into Yuuri's personal space. J.J., on the other hand, yanks the back of Yuuri's shirt in protest; his cold, sticky fingers making Yuuri shudder in disgust.

“No _**way**_!” J.J. whines, “Yuuri knows I'm right. Right, Yuuri?”

Yuuri takes a deep breath through his nose and pinches the bridge, trying desperately to stave off the pounding of his head. 'Good morning's were not in order, he supposes. Goodness knows what sort of horrid mess they left in their wake upstairs.

“ _ **Enough,**_ ” Yuuri barks. He jerks his poor shirt out of J.J.'s grasp and snatches Yurio's weapon out of his hands, giving both children admonishing stares. He purses his lips and immediately they shrink, eyes wide. They're ridiculous, the pair of them; two prideful children just far enough in age to butt heads.

Yuuri has half a mind to just send both of them upstairs to clean up whatever chaos is on the second floor, but he frowns at them both instead, hands on his hips. “Why don't we just _**ask**_ Victor when he gets here?”

“Ask me what?”

Leaning against the banister is the wizard himself, white shirt loose around his chest and tucked into dark trousers that hug his hips tightly, showing off his beautifully long legs. His smile is a playful quirk of his lips, his eyes alight with mischief.

“Victor,” Yuuri breathes. Their gazes draw to each other like magnets and the way Victor's smile softens makes Yuuri breathless.

Victor glides down the rest of the stairs and Yuuri can't look away. Victor doesn't either, even as Makkachin bounds down the stairs and nearly slams into his knees.

All arguments are nullified when the boys see the large mess of fluff and fur, eyes full of wonder and excitement. Makkachin rushes over to them immediately, barreling headlong into J.J.'s chest and knocking him to the ground with a squeal of surprise.

“We are keeping this dog,” Yurio proclaims resolutely as J.J. struggles beneath Makkachin's weight.

Victor's strides are smooth as he makes his way to Yuuri's side. This close, Yuuri can see the gradient of green to blue in his eyes, the plumpness of his lips and the long flutter of his silver lashes. The look in Victor's face is fond, gentle, and Yuuri wants to fall into it, knowing full well Victor would catch him.

Yuuri swallows and Victor's eyes track the action before skimming back up to his face.

Victor reaches up with a graceful hand and brushes some of Yuuri's long bangs away from his forehead, his fingertips grazing his scalp. The movement is casual, almost automatic in the ease Victor does it, but it makes Yuuri's heart stutter manically, stomach shaking his insides.

Victor's gaze doesn't waver and his hand lingers, fingertips softly outlining the shape of Yuuri's cheek down to his jawline. The feeling is like static, delicate electricity sparking from Victor's skin to Yuuri's, and Yuuri's mouth parts on a silent gasp, his body hot.

Victor's expression changes almost imperceptibly, but there's a shift in the corner of his eyes, a different pinch to his brow. It tugs sharply at something in Yuuri's chest.

He looks mournful when he pulls away, taking Yuuri's breath with him as he drops his hand.

Victor suddenly turns to the group, beaming, and Yuuri's skin feels cold with the loss of contact. “We've got a lot of work to do,” Victor announces, “We're moving!”

“Moving?” J.J. asks, resigned to his fate as Makkachin's new favourite napping place as the dog curls up on his back comfortably.

“Yakov is hot on our trail so we have to hurry.” He motions for Yurio to follow him and the boy lights up, shaking some of the dust out of his hair before pulling a piece of chalk out of his pocket. Yuuri raises an eyebrow, but Victor gives him a playful smirk before practically skipping down the stairs to the awaiting crisp air outside.

Everything that happens next feels like a blur. One moment Yuuri is cleaning up from breakfast and the next Victor and Yurio have returned, telling everyone to sit on the dining room table. The dutifully do so and J.J. wraps his arms around Makkachin's fuzzy neck to keep him from jumping off.

Victor draws a symbol on the floor with a flourish and Yuuri can only see part of it from his perch on the table. It's like a segmented circle, with an eye-like shape on its upper half and sharp lines drawn towards the center.

With a satisfied smile, Victor stands and strides over to the fireplace, hefting the steel ash shovel in his hand.

Christophe crawls onto the metal with a teasing grin, flames licking towards the ceiling. “Be gentle with me.”

Victor smirks in response, standing at the center of the circle. The air crackles, but Victor is poised and pristine. “On my mark,” he says, extending an arm.

It starts with the air. It's electric and pulsing, thrumming like a heartbeat and the wind picks up, swirling around the room and tugging at their clothes. Victor is a blur of colour: blues, purples, grays and whites that revolve around him and spread through the room and up into the rafters. The sounds follow, like air being blown into a balloon but faster and it bows the wood of the castle and stretches the floor with cracks and groans. Yuuri watches as the walls expand, the ceiling raises, the ground shifts. Colour changes around them, all circulating outwards from Victor and Christophe's combined power, and Yuuri is stuck in his seat as new furniture slams on the floor and pops into existence around them. It's mesemerizingly chaotic and impossible to follow and just as soon as it starts it ends, punctuated by the blaring of a train that rattles a brand new window.

Yuuri lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and closes his eyes for a moment, coming down from the tension.

Wait.

A _**train**_?

J.J. and Yurio are up in seconds, jumping around their new home with exuberance at the size and the furniture and the courtyard, but Yuuri slides of the table slowly, his feet tapping on the shining walnut floor.

He makes his way over to the window in a daze, air caught in his lungs, and puts a hand on the cool glass to steady himself.

Narrow alleyways and thin streets. The clanging metal tram. The red-brick homes and their clay gabled roofs.

The aroma of fresh baking breads and the quiet hum of the afternoon streets nearly bring Yuuri to his knees and he clutches the window frame, throat tight with emotion. “But...But this is – ”

Victor's voice cuts through the air, cuts through his thoughts with his smooth voice and lilting excitement, and Yuuri turns to him through his haze. “Over here, Yuuri!” The way his mouth forms around Yuuri's name feels unreal, too intimate, but Yuuri is drawn to him anyway, like magnets beneath his skin pulling him ever closer to Victor's gravity. Victor's smile is wide, incredibly pleased, and his hand is on the handle of a door by the stairs. He opens it with a gentle push and Yuuri's brain is a muddle of confusion and flustered energy. “I added on another bedroom,” Victor says as Yuuri stumbles into the room on unsteady feet.

It's a bedroom. It's _**his**_ bedroom. It's _**his**_ little bedroom from _**his**_ little hat shop and that's _**his**_ desk overlooking the streets below and _**his**_ window that rattles and all Yuuri can do is gasp over the lump in his throat as he looks around, staring at the same wispy drapes and the same downy comforter.

Victor is kind enough to not encroach on this moment, staying in the doorway until Yuuri is ready to face him, and Yuuri is grateful for it. He's not sure he'd be able to say anything right now without breaking his carefully controlled facade. Instead, he lets his eyes wander, fingers dragging against the grain of the built in desk and the small pile of unopened boxes on top.

It feels like an eternity before Yuuri finds his voice, but Victor stays all the same; ever patient. “Why'd you do this?” he murmurs.

“So we'd have a room that suited you,” Victor explains quietly. Yuuri's blood rushes to his ears and he knows they're turning red. “Do you like it?”

Yuuri wrings his hands, fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeve. Victor's kindness is too much, his appreciation too deep. Yuuri isn't worth this, surely? All he can do is clean and make hats. It can't be more than a thank you.

His stomach churns, his eyes downcast.

He's not worth all of this.

“Of course,” he mutters, “It's perfect for a housekeeper.”

Yuuri doesn't need to see Victor's face. He doesn't want to see the disappointment. The disgust as Yuuri's skin shrivels and ages. It's bound to be there; that quiet revulsion he feels whenever he looks at himself or catches his reflection. Everyone else must feel it, too, even someone as bright as Victor. “I got you some new clothes too, but you can open them later,” Victor says. His voice is light as he drags Yuuri out of his introspection, and he motions for Yuuri to follow.

Victor leads him to the front door with a spring in his step and when he turns his smile is eager, eyes alight. “See the new color on the dial?” he asks and Yuuri nods dumbly, watching as Victor twirls it to a comforting red. “It's a new portal.”

Victor swings the door open and the light breeze that blows through ruffles the edge of Yuuri's shirt.

“It's a present for you.” Victor smiles and there's that fond look again, that softness to his eyes. He extends a hand towards him, lithe fingers reaching out for a companion. “Come see.”

There's a barrier between them that broke at the palace. Some quiet understanding that touch was too far, that Yuuri couldn't handle it, that Victor didn't _**want**_ it. But it's easier now to accept neither of those hypotheses are truths, and Yuuri takes Victor's outstretched hand in his own, letting the warmth coarse through him. Victor's smile crinkles at his eyes and oh, Yuuri has to look away from its brightness with a small smile of his own, a delicate flush to his cheeks.

They walk through into another world.

Yuuri swears it must be magic, because from his vantage point they've strolled straight into a painting.

Victor opened the door to a valley of wild flowers, all pinks and yellows and soft reds with sweet aromas, littered as far as the eye can see. They're sheltered by tall mountains, snow-caped with encroaching forests, and they're high enough that clouds roll lazily through the field, caught on the wind.

There are pockets of water that glitter like glass, tiny lakes that reflect the calming blue of the sky and the swell of the mountains and the tapestry of flowers.

Yuuri doesn't even know if he's breathing, too lost in the colours and the warmth and the man beside him, who gently squeezes his hand.

“You like it?” Victor wonders, leading Yuuri further in, “It's my secret garden.”

“It's incredible!” Yuuri exclaims, trying not to bend any of the bright stems as they walk, “Did you use your magic to make this?”

“Only a little,” Victor hums, “Just to help the flowers grow.”

Yuuri has no idea how far they walk or for how long – time barely seems to pass when the ground beneath their feet is peppered with such exquisite beauty and they're protected on all sides by rolling hills.

Or maybe it's the man holding Yuuri's hand that makes time stand still, that continues to make Yuuri's stomach flutter, that makes his chest warm with every pulse of his heart. He catches Victor staring at him more than once, an appreciative glance from the side, and it makes his ears burn pleasantly.

Yuuri decides to sit on the grass after a while, to admire the rolling sky and soft hills from a different angle. He's so at peace, so comfortable. He could spend hours here and not feel a second of it.

Victor sits next to him in moments. There's so little space between them, thighs pressed together on the springy ground. There is still a childlike hesitation to their touches even though the barrier was leveled, and Yuuri feels Victor's pinkie poke his like it had weeks ago, a quiet question that Yuuri answers with a nudge of his own. Yuuri's skin still warms as Victor's hand rests over his, thumb brushing his knuckles affectionately, and Yuuri keeps his gaze on the distant mountains, his smile thoughtful.

“Yuuri?” The way Victor says his name is elegant and soft like a whisper, like he's worried he'll break Yuuri from his trance.

“It all seems so familiar yet I know I've never been here before,” Yuuri breathes, “It's lovely.”

A breeze blows Yuuri's bangs out of his face, rustles the grass. Victor's smile softens in adoration.

“Yes,” Victor murmurs breathlessly, not looking at the hills or the sky or the flowers, “Incredibly.”

Yuuri has no idea how long they stay like that – it could have been minutes or hours, but when Victor squeezes his hand and shifts, Yuuri turns to him.

His chest lurches.

The space between them shrinks, becomes warmer, liquefies. There's something intense about Victor's eyes, something brewing beneath the storm of his irises and he tightens his grip on Yuuri's hand almost painfully. There's something he's trying to say – Yuuri can see it build on his tongue, swell in his chest, a weight that Victor can't dislodge from his throat. Yuuri's skin boils when Victor leans closer, when the world around them stops and Victor is all Yuuri can see, is all he can focus on.

_**What are you trying to say?** _

Yuuri's heart is thudding like an off-beat drum and his eyes widen when Victor's other hand cups his elbow, keeping so little space between them that Yuuri can feel the way Victor says his name, a rasping puff of air caught in the space between their lips.

Victor is looking at him but Yuuri can see his mind is clouded. There's something stopping him from finding solace and comfort in the intensity of his expression.

Yuuri's face burns, chest aching. Victor squeezes Yuuri's elbow, like if he lets go Yuuri will float away, and Yuuri so desperately wants to tell him that that could never happen, that Yuuri's not going anywhere.

There's a loneliness in Victor's gaze, a desperation. Yuuri wants to reach up and smooth his thumbs over the strain in Victor's face, to ease the pressure, but his body is frozen, breath stuck in his lungs. He waits for Victor to move.

It's all he _**can**_ do.

Victor closes his eyes and lets out a shaking breath that caresses Yuuri's face. His fingers curl around Yuuri's and he pulls Yuuri's hand to his lips, pressing a hard kiss to Yuuri's knuckles. Victor's brow furrows, eyes shut tightly, and though Yuuri's pulse thrums at the contact, he can't help but feel a chill.

Victor pulls Yuuri to his feet, his head spinning.

What was that? What _**was**_ that?

Victor leads him further down the hill and Yuuri's jumbled mind can only focus on their clasped hands. Victor's smile is there but it's distant, a mask.

_**What were you trying to say, Victor?** _

Victor slows to a stop and Yuuri stops beside him, following Victor's gaze to where a small bungalow sits, made of faded sandstone and overlooking a large lake. There's a small water wheel that creaks as it spins and a tiny set of stairs that leads down into the grass and flowers. Though the colour is a contrast the little shack fits, Yuuri realizes, snuggled between a well trodden pat on either side where countless treks have receded the line of vegetation.

“What a cute cottage,” Yuuri breathes.

“That was my secret hideaway,” Victor replies. He smiles more easily as he talks, threading his fingers with Yuuri's. His look remains distant though; trapped in memories of his past. Yuuri tries to remind himself not to stare. “I spent a lot of time here by myself when I was young.”

“You were alone?” Yuuri wonders. The expression that crosses Victor's face is fond, and there's a tenderness there that seems to tell Yuuri his assumption is correct.

“My uncle was a wizard and gave me this place as my private study,” he explains, “Now you can come here whenever you'd like.” He flashes Yuuri a smile but it's reticent, reserved.

He pulls away, to lead Yuuri down the hill and closer to those memories, but something settles heavily in Yuuri's chest and he hesitates. Victor's arm falls limp at his side and he turns, concerned.

“What's the matter?”

Yuuri can feel himself withdraw, can feel the tension in his skin and the closing of his throat, but he pushes through them despite the wavering of his voice. “It's...Y-You're scaring me.” The look on Victor's face tugs at his heart but Yuuri presses on, tripping over his words. “I-I have this w-weird feeling that you're going to leave.” Yuuri glances nervously at Victor's expression, but it's unreadable. He stares at the grass by their feet. “Please, j-just...tell me what's going on. I don't care if you're a monster.”

Victor's smile returns to him, like he is always pleasantly surprised by what Yuuri has to say, and walks back into Yuuri's personal space.

“I'm just setting things up so you can live a comfortable life, Yuuri,” he says, but his voice is sunless and hollow and so full of fake cheer that it makes Yuuri's stomach twist. “With all the flowers in this valley you could easily open up a flower shop. Right? I'm sure you'd be good at it!”

“So you _**are**_ going away.” Victor's face falls and it's all the answer he needs. Yuuri bows his head, inches it closer so his head nudges Victor's shoulder. “Please, Victor,” Yuuri murmurs, “I know I'm not...” He swallows. “I'm not _**pretty**_ but I – ”

Victor surges forward, a hand gripping Yuuri's shoulder and Yuuri's eyes fly to his face, wide and honest. “Yuuri, _**Yuuri.**_ You're beautiful.” Victor seizes Yuuri's hand, holds it tightly in the space between their chests, and Yuuri keeps his eyes fixed on them as his shrivel, skin bunching up and wrinkling.

 _ **Ugly**_.

Yuuri can't stop the sting to his eyes, even as Victor tightens the hold he has on him.

“I'm glad one of us thinks so.”

Victor's expression pains, crestfallen, and Yuuri stares at the ground, watching the wind caress petals of purple and white.

Yuuri can see the effort it takes for Victor to tear his gaze away and it feels like Victor takes Yuuri's heart with him, leaving him empty and hollow.

The clanging of metal and steel causes Yuuri to jump and the loud whirring of engines disturbs their silence, punching the air.

A huge airship careens slowly over the mountains into their quiet little sanctuary, lurching through the sky and cutting the air with its heavy sound. The smoke it billows out is thick and black and Yuuri's nose scrunches up at the smell.

It breaks through their clandestine getaway, and the restlessness between them shifts to something far more severe.

“What is that thing doing out here?” Victor growls, “Looking for more cities to burn?”

“Is it the enemy's or one of ours?” Yuuri murmurs.

“What difference does it make?” Another appears on the horizon, chugging engine loud and metallic, and Victor snakes an arm around Yuuri's waist. Yuuri isn't sure whether it's for his own resolve or Victor's. “Those stupid murderers,” Victor breathes, “We can't just let them fly off with all those bombs.”

Victor swipes his arm through the air and suddenly there are alarms blaring from the battleship, the wings of it snapping in an off kilter rhythm. It slows, but doesn't stop.

“What's happening?” Yuuri gasps, “What did you do?”

“Just messed with it,” Victor replies unhelpfully. The smirk on his face is strained and Yuuri grabs his arm before Victor can covet it behind his back. It's burned, blackened, and flecks of dull gray feathers poke painfully through his skin.  Yuuri's stomach lurches.

“Victor – ”

“Uh oh,” Victor titters, “Here they come.” Creatures fly from the ship, bodies a mass of black goop and flares of colour, with wings that are more metal than flesh. They swarm in the sky, pinpoint their targets, and dive.

Yuuri doesn't even have time to suck in a breath, no time to let his nerves and fears get to him, before Victor has him in the air. His words don't reach Yuuri at all; fighting against the rush of the wind and the pounding of Yuuri's ears. Yuuri hears Victor say his name, what feels like the whisper of a kiss to his temple, and in seconds Yuuri is floating through the front door of the castle, tumbling onto the steps.

Shocked and overwhelmed, all Yuuri can do is stare. The dial clicks to yellow as Yurio and J.J. return, but all Yuuri hears is the rattling of the windows and the way his name forms on Victor's lips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAHHHHH I love this chapter. The ending is a little rushed and the metaphors get a little jumbled but DAMMIT I love the flower scene. I always found Howl and Sophie's relationship to be devoid of touches so I fixed that since Yuuri and Victor are so touchy-feely in the show.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed! And please be sure to comment, kudo, and hit me up on tumblr if you have any questions!


	7. In a Place to Call Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.  
> \- Oliver Wendell Holmes

It's strange being in a place that was once your home but is altogether _**not**_.

The surroundings are familiar; like the clanging metal trolley that takes Yuuri into the center of town, the quiet central square, the cobbled streets and the sweet, sugary smells wafting from the bakery. Even Yuuri's flower shop has the same décor it had when it was just for selling hats – lime green walls, large purple curtains, and decals of flowers adoring the ceiling and floor. (When Victor had found the time to enter Yuuri's shop he will never know – he doesn't remember recounting Victor at all about his little hat shop and his little life and it only makes Yuuri wonder if he can read minds on top of everything else.)

The exterior is the same too, like nothing in Market Chipping has changed: from the wooden beams to the stairs to the colours, to the stonework or the flowerpots on windowsills to the fat gray cat that still lounges listlessly up and down the street.

It's all the same, like it was plucked from Yuuri's memory.

But for some reason, Yuuri feels out of place. The tram and the rattling of the train are no longer a solid comfort beneath his feet, the narrow streets no longer a solace.

Yuuri has no idea how many days have passed since Victor was last at the castle. He tries not to dwell on it, tries to busy himself as best he can with the new shop and maintaining the grounds in Victor's absence.

The shop is full of lovely, simple aromas, and though hundreds of flowers fill the space, Yuuri's head still swims with lilacs as he struggles to fall asleep each night in his room, his hat discarded on the built in desk.

He wanders into the living room as he often does when sleep is fleeting, and his fingers trail along the dark, polished wood of the bookcases. Its during the quiet, empty hours – when J.J. and Yurio are asleep and Makkachin is snuggled up on the couch – that Yuuri finds his chest tightening considerably, like the air is stuffed with cotton that gets stuck in his lungs and burns his eyes. His slender fingertips brush spines of green and purple, golden titles swimming, as Yuuri clenches his teeth.

“You're in love,” Christophe hums, breaking Yuuri from his self-destructive trance. Yuuri jumps, a protest stumbling on his tongue, but Christophe's eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles and he shakes his head. “Don't deny it, you've been sighing all day.”

With the licking flame of his tiny limbs, Christophe gestures to the chair in front of him and Yuuri can't stop how he glides towards it, settling into the hard wood like he had all those days ago. Or weeks. Or months.

Yuuri isn't sure how long he's been here at the castle, but every moment without Victor feels like a haze; the sickening, sweet smell of wildflowers and the clanging of metal and the rattling of windows all congealed in the stickiness of the air outside and the thrum of his heart.

Yuuri sighs heavily, trying to force out the cotton stuck in his chest.

“Just as I thought,” Christophe tuts.

“Have you...” Yuuri swallows and tries to stifle the flush to his cheeks. “...Ever been in love, Christophe?” Yuuri murmurs hesitantly, picking idly at the hem of his nightshirt.

“Of course I have.” Christophe sighs, wistful, leaning lackadaisically on one of his wooden logs. “I am always in love.”

The phrasing perplexes him, and Yuuri hazards a glance at the flicking of the fire. Christophe's eyes are distant, twinkling embers of hazel that fade to gray.

Thankfully, Christophe continues without prompting.

“Young men can be so unpredictable,” he muses, though Yuuri can tell how carefully selected each word is, “But their hearts?” Christophe smiles coquettishly, eyes sliding back to Yuuri's face, “Their hearts I just adore.”

There's something Christophe is trying to tell him – it's the flash in those hazel eyes, the knowing twirl to the flickering fire of his lips – and Yuuri furrows his brow, trying to read the unknown language of Christophe's face.

A sound like a whistle or an alarm blares in the distance, rolling through the air like thunder. It starts off low before rising in pitch, echoing through the narrow, cobbled streets. Yuuri has never heard anything like it and he stumbles to his feet, eyes scanning the window as if he can pinpoint where it's coming from.

He's not sure why, but it lumps something thick in his throat, his teeth clenching.

“What's that?” he hisses. His fists curl at his sides, though whether its out of anger or fear, he isn't sure.

“It's an air raid siren,” Christophe explains portentously.

Yuuri's gaze flicks to the fire, but Christophe's expression is unreadable. “Air raid?”

“It's a long ways off,” he assures, lazily leaning back before looking up at the roof, “But you shouldn't go outside tonight. Yakov's henchmen are probably – ”

A creak on the stairs startles them both and Yuuri rushes to the banister, heart catching.

Thankfully, it's only J.J., rubbing his eyes tiredly with the back of his hand. His hair is a mess atop his head and he's dragging a blanket behind him, letting it slip down the stairs as he slowly descends. He stops halfway down to yawn loudly, his eyes remaining closed for several long seconds after he does.

Yuuri breathes out a slow sigh.

“J.J.,” he says soothingly, trying to calm his nerves as he takes the first step, “What are you doing up?”

The boy blinks languidly before rubbing his eyes again, trying to clear the sleep that beckons him still. “I heard a noise,” he murmurs, “I wanted – ” another yawn, his words slurring, “ – ta see if we needed to fight somethin'...”

Yuuri can't stop the small, appreciative smile that tugs at his lips.

“Thank you, J.J.,” Yuuri says, meeting him at the step below his, “But there's nothing to worry about right now.” He holds out his hand and J.J.'s heavy eyes slide to it sluggishly. “Let's get you to bed, okay?”

It takes J.J. a moment to compose himself, stuck between remembering why he came down the stairs in the first place and why Yuuri is now in front of him and his gaze trickles to Christophe, who stares back with an indecipherable smile.

“Good fire...” J.J. hums as he takes Yuuri's hand. Yuuri nods, murmuring softly in agreement as he ushers J.J. up the stairs. “He keeps this house so well hidden...”

* * *

 

Yuuri's sleep is not restful. His lungs are full of acrid smoke, his vision full of fire, and in the middle of it all is Victor: silvery feathers singed and burning, his hulking frame writhing as he fights off numerous, dark shapes. Yuuri's wheezing voice doesn't reach him and the sparkling blue of Victor's eyes is dulled, empty, grayed out.

Yuuri wakes up in a cold sweat before the sun, the stench of charred flesh still stinging his nostrils. Tears prick his eyes and Yuuri shudders, rubbing the palms of his hands into his sockets to stave off the fire and flames.

He hears Makkachin amble over to him, greeted by the dog's cold nose pressing insistently against his hand, and Yuuri's sigh shakes out of his chest. His trembling fingers reach out, curling around Makkachin's soft fur, and the poodle wags his tail, happy for the attention. He must be cognizant of how Yuuri's feeling, because he doesn't press further into his space, just waits quietly as Yuuri pieces himself back together, waits patiently for him to clear the fog from his lungs.

With a deep exhale, Yuuri tries his best to exude the tension from his chest and meets Makkachin's dark, glassy eyes. He forces a smile, pats the dog's head, and stands. “Let's go open the shop, okay boy?”

Makkachin wheezes excitedly and trots by Yuuri's side as he crosses into the courtyard, tail waggling even as it whops against the door frame.

* * *

The shop is slow and though usually Yuuri would welcome it, he itches for a distraction. When he arranges lilies, roses and daises for a young girl and her mother, the faint, pretty aroma dissolves into singed feathers, the yellow and red colors swirling like fire and the flames lick Yuuri's subconscious.

It doesn't help that Yurio, who _**insisted**_ he was going to be Yuuri's assistant today, is nowhere to be found. Over the last several days, Yurio has had...an admirer of sorts. A boy, no taller than J.J., showed up with his father, dutifully and silently standing beside him. His black hair hung loosely around his face but his eyes were dark, eyebrows pinched, with a face of utter determination no child should carry.

No child outside of Yurio, of course, who immediately caught the boy's attention.

Though Yuuri couldn't recall them saying more than two words to each other, Yurio gloatingly announced to him later that night that “Otabek” would be helping him with _**various plans**_ , a phrase that made J.J. blanch from across the table.

Right now though, things are quiet, and Yuuri leans against the cashier's counter of the shop, idly tracing his fingertip around a fallen pink camellia petal, descending once more into his tumultuous thoughts.

He's surprised that no one in town has recognized him, though he also has not recognized anyone in town. The people who enter the shop with the war looming so close to their doorstep are travelers, passing through to safer towns or the elderly who refuse to budge, just as resilient as the ancient trees of the Wastes beyond their boarders.

Yuuri's throat tightens, brushing the bruised pink camellia into the trashcan by his feet. He hopes his sister decided to leave the city with Guang-Hong and Leo when they shuffled off to safety; he doesn't want to think of her sticking around, waiting for him to return. He doesn't want to think of how she would react when she sees him like this, all gnarled fingers and bent spine and crumpled skin.

As always, he comes back to Victor. Why did Victor choose Market Chipping for their home when the war encroached so close to its frontier? Why did he put so much effort into making sure, above all, that _**Yuuri**_ was comfortable? Yuuri's hand curls against the oak counter and he stares down hard into the grain, breathing in slowly through his nose. Where does he go when he disappears?

Where does that fourth colour on the door lead to?

His glasses slip down slightly, but he makes no move to rectify them.

_**What aren't you telling me, Victor? Where does that darkness lead?** _

The bell to the front door chimes and Yuuri looks up, shaken from his introspection by Yurio's flushed face, his eyes wide with panic.

“Yuuri,” he shrieks, padding up to him, the top of his blond head barely reaching the edge of the counter, “There's a weird lady outside!”

The bell jingles, and she walks in though the front like she has hundreds, maybe thousands of times before. She's stunning, dressed in a stylish blue and white striped shirt and her black trousers look painted on, shaped perfectly around her long legs. Her coat – the signature tan, signature gold buttons – is draped around her shoulders and she strolls into the center of the room like a queen, her medium length brown hair styled to frame her face. She tosses her hat down dramatically on the counter – the one Yuuri made for her years ago with the blueberries and purple feathers – and gives Yuuri a long stare.

“M-Minako?” He stutters, surprised. His gaze flicks nervously between the beauty mark below her left eye and the calculating, dark gray of her irises.

Immediately, they fill with tears.

“YUURI!” she cries, throwing herself across the counter into his arms. It takes a considerable amount of energy to not tumble to the ground with the force but Yuuri manages it, just barely. With a contented breath, he wraps his arms around her lithe, muscular frame, buried in the scent of tea rose perfume. She's rambling into Yuuri's hair and Yuuri can feel her shaking beneath his fingers. He tries not to laugh as she goes on about how much she missed him, how _**worried**_ she was, how she heard from Mari that he was missing and they looked everywhere and Minako had been searching the nearby towns to see where he could have gone and _**oh.**_

Yuuri forgot what it was like to be hugged so lovingly, so bone-crushingly tight.

He feels a lump grow in his throat, his heart clenching, and Minako runs a soothing hand up and down Yuuri's back.

“Oh, Yuuri,” she whispers and Yuuri's stomach coils, “What _**happened**_?”

Yuuri hopes he doesn't sound as choked as he feels. “I can't tell you.”

Minako pulls back, just enough to look at Yuuri's face, and even after all this time Yuuri finds his eyes straying from her stare, hiding from her judgment.

Gently and with freshly manicured fingers, she cups his face with both hands before mushing his pliable skin with brutish, teasing strength.

“You know that's not a good answer!” she chides as Yuuri flails helplessly, stammering through a flurry of apologies. She stops after several frantic seconds, however, and pinches Yuuri's nose fondly.

“Whatever trouble you're in,” she continues, standing straight, “I know you have a way to get out of it, right?”

Yuuri hesitates only a moment before meeting her stare, nodding resolutely. He wishes his words sound as strongly as he feels. “Yeah...Yes!”

Minako smiles, and for now that's enough.

When Yuuri leads her through the entryway into the house she gasps in admiring awe and Yuuri feels the tell-tale flush burn up his neck, his heart fluttering with pride. It isn't his house necessarily, but the way Minako's eyes light up with an excited energy – the way her hands linger on the bookshelves and the table, the way her smile widens at the fireplace, her unbridled enthusiasm – makes Yuuri feel like it is.

She turns on her heel, dropping a coin purse on the dining room table, and excitedly grabs his hand with both of her's. They're warm and soft, a stark contrast to Yuuri's rough, calloused fingers, and the nagging voice in the back of his mind reminds him once more how everything is the same. Everything except him.

Yuuri's bites the inside of his cheek.

“I almost forgot,” Minako says, “Your mother and sister are in Upper Folding now.” The mention of his family catches Yuuri's attention and he glances back up at her, eyes wide. Her smile softens, although her grip on his hand does not. “You don't have to work as a housekeeper anymore!”

Yuuri can't lie, the prospect is comforting. Back to simplicity and quiet mornings and the gentle scratching of his needlework. To the wafting of Mari's pastries and his mother's humming as she cooks. Of going out to eat with Guang-Hong and Leo after work and coming home to an empty, quiet house. Back to his old work, his old friends, his old _**life**_.

But even as he pictures it, the images swirl in his mind. The rattling of the windows is bathed in warm firelight rather than lanterns or candles and the pattering of children's bare feet on wooden floors replaces the silence. He imagines Victor and his sparkling blue eyes, his heart shaped smile, the press of his lips against Yuuri's knuckles.

Makkachin nudges his free hand, silently craving attention, and Yuuri absentmindedly pats his head with crooked fingers.

“That's alright Minako,” he finds himself saying, though the words feel stronger the more they mull around in his chest, “I like living here.”

Minako's voice drops, her grip tightening on Yuuri's reflexively. “Really?” she murmurs. Yuuri's eyes fly to her's and there's something behind the gray of her irises, a concern pinched between her perfectly plucked eyebrows. Yuuri searches her face, trying to find a foothold in her expression, but it's stolen from him, shrouded by the storm in her eyes.

“Minako?” he breathes.

Like the strike of a match that distance is gone and Minako retracts her hands, leaving Yuuri's hanging in the air.

“I almost forgot,” she exclaims, “I've got a car waiting! I have to run.” Bewildered, Yuuri walks her to the door, though his legs feel more gelatinous with every step. Minako puts a hand on his shoulder once they're outside, but it does little to stop his world from spinning.

Her words catch in his throat. “I'm glad you're okay, Yuuri,” she says, giving his arm a squeeze, “Please stay safe.”

Yuuri watches her get into her car, watches her drive down the street, and feels a twist curl in his stomach.

Something's off, and Yuuri's not quite sure _**what**_.

Yurio joins him on the stoop and Yuuri schools his expression, leaning back against the door in an attempt to seem casual. Yurio, arms crossed over his chest, says nothing, but his steel-blue eyes keep glancing up at Yuuri expectantly, so Yuuri attempts to break the withering silence.

“How is Otabek?” he asks, watching as Yurio curls further in on himself.

“He's leaving tonight with his dad,” he grumbles. Yuuri feels a pang in his chest and Yurio worries his lower lip between his teeth.

“Oh, Yurio, I'm so s– ”

“Are you going to leave, too?”

Yuuri blinks, not sure if he heard that correctly. “What?”

“That _**lady**_ ,” Yurio spits it out and Yuuri would reprimand him if he didn't hear the struggle behind his words, “Says you could live with your mom and sister now.”

“Yes?” Yuuri ventures. Yurio clenches his tiny fists at his sides, his shoulders shaking.

With a pitiful cry Yurio throws himself into Yuuri's legs, pressing his sniffling face into Yuuri's thigh.

“Don't leave,” he demands quietly. His shoulders shake and Yuuri's chest swells with emotion as Yurio's arms curl around his legs tightly, like Yuuri would step out of his sight if he didn't. “I love you,” he whines, voice muffled, “You _ **have**_ to stay.”

Yuuri's brow knits in concern and he gets down on his knees, eye-level with the child. Yurio's eyes are puffy and red but Yuuri smiles at him all the same, putting his hands on the boy's bony shoulders. “I love you, too,” he assures, his voice fond, “I'll stay.”

Yurio sniffles and wraps his short arms around Yuuri's neck, nuzzling into Yuuri's shirt as quiet sobs tremble his small frame. “Thank you,” Yurio chokes out and the sincerity cuts deep into Yuuri's heart.

He never did ask how Yurio ended up in Victor's care, but with how tightly Yurio is clinging to him, he can certainly guess.

Yuuri brushes his fingers through Yurio's soft, wheat coloured hair and holds him close, waiting until his hiccuping subsides. Once Yurio pulls back to rub his nose – blushed red from crying – on the back of his sleeve, Yuuri takes his small hand in his larger one and leads Yurio slowly back up the stone steps to their home, the memory of Minako's stare settling deep in his bones.

* * *

The sun sets, but the darkness brings no comfort. The streets are empty and deathly quiet, like the intake of breath before a loud sneeze or the hum of the air before rain.

It's thick and heady and Yuuri finds his gaze flicking towards the window every so often, something sinister curling like a viper in his chest.

Christophe is non-responsive, just crackling embers and putrid, sickly smoke, and Yuuri tries not to think of what that may mean for Victor. Right now, he needs to get the fire going, needs to bring that warmth back into their home.

Yurio, sitting at the dining room table, swings his legs idly and purses his lips, folding open a crinkling newspaper. “But it says _**right here**_ that we won,” he shouts at J.J., who snaps on some terribly foul bubblegum. Its sticky, treacly sweet stench is like molded blueberries, or a strawberry burned by the sun and crushed under hundreds of feet, but J.J. just masticates with it loudly, a toothy grin on his face as he lounges on the couch. It's far worse than the dry smoke billowing from Christophe's embers and Yuuri tries to stave off a headache.

“Only _**idiots**_ believe what they read in the paper,” J.J. says reproachfully, popping his gum again.

Yuuri tries not to reprimand him too harshly, but his question is pushed through tight lips. “Do you have to keep chewing that? It smells terrible.”

J.J. looks up, pouting. “You dare deny a wizard his pleasures?”

Yurio and Yuuri share a knowing look before Yurio hops off his perch, stomping over to the window. He grumbles something about how J.J. isn't a real wizard, how _**he**_ should be the one opening the stupid window since it's _**his**_ stupid gum –

And then there's the hum. It's starts off slow and grows in volume, vibrates the air. The tearing sound of parchment. Fear and adrenaline shoot through Yuuri's veins and ignite him like fire, like lightning, and he doesn't even register the whistle of the siren – a blaring, cacophonous noise – before he drags Yurio away from the window, wrestles a startled J.J. to the floor, and holds both boys protectively to his chest just as the explosion booms overhead, shaking the house violently.

Books tumble from their shelves, plates crack and splinter against the floor, a lamp crashes over, and Yurio trembles against him, small and fragile like the rattling glass of the windows that threatens to shatter with every passing second.

The quake subsides and Yuuri pulls back, dizzy. A pair of startled eyes stare back up at him, and Yuuri swallows thickly, trying to dislodge the panic rising in his throat.

What is he supposed to _**do**_?

Damage control. Damage control, first. He needs to check on the shop, the shop Victor gave him, it's not protected like the house is and what about their neighbors what about the courtyard what about the tram and the bakery and –

And he looks back down at the children, tears pooling in Yurio's sky-blue eyes.

“Stay _**right here**_ ,” Yuuri demands quietly. Yurio shakes his head slowly, reaching out to him with short, pudgy fingers, but J.J. holds his hand and keeps him in place. Yuuri's whole body feels electric and his hands tremble as he puts them on Yurio's shoulders. “I...I'm going to check on the shop, okay?”

He turns and races out of the house, but he still catches the panicked, wounded look that crosses Yurio's face when he throws open the front door.

The sky is ablaze with smoke and fire and Yuuri stumbles through the cobbled courtyard to the shop, knocking a stray vase out of his way as he staggers out onto the stoop, heart threatening to pound through his rib cage.

The chaos outside is deafening.

If there are people screaming, he can't hear it over the trembling of the ground and the crumbling of stone. The siren blares, shrieking in alarm, and something cracks, booms in the distance, erupts in a spray of dust and rock and fire.

He wants to cry, he can feel tears burn his eyes, but a low rumbling drags him from the flames licking the sky. His eyes dart to the street where hundreds of black blobs, dark creatures sopping along the cobbled road, turn their attentions to him, faces dripping excess goop onto the ground. Yuuri sucks in a hurried breath, tasting soot and ash in his mouth.

Yakov's henchmen.

It's like the world slows – wobbling but solid somehow – and Yuuri's breath fills his lungs gradually, steadily. With a glare, Yuuri storms back into the shop and locks the door, ignoring the seeping, black tar of the creatures' long fingers reaching around the frame. He barely gives them a glance as he flies past bouquets and arrangements, throwing open the back door.

Air rushes over him the second his feet touch the courtyard and Yuuri is frozen in place, his gasp lost in the clanging of metal and steel.

His stare is drawn to the sky, drawn to the hulking monstrosity of the airship as it hovers over them, oblivious to the lives below in Yuuri's sleepy town, and a black blob drops from within. Yuuri's stomach drops with it.

He can't move – his feet are suctioned to the ground – and for a split second he's certain this will be it: that his life amounted to nothing but this, that Yurio and J.J. will be alone, that he won't save Victor, that he can't save himself.

A flash of silver catches the firelight, darts through the sky, and though the metal cracks the stone, shakes the ground beneath Yuuri's feet, there's no flames or pain – only the fluttering of silver and the panting of familiar breath.

Yuuri vision clears through the dust and his heart soars.

“Victor!”

He's almost unrecognizable. His clothes are gone, replaced by silver wings and feathers that are singed and smoking along their edges, dark flecks of ash and tar smearing his normally rosy cheeks. His eyes never leave Yuuri's, always drawing him in, always warm and sparkling and stunning, and Yuuri's heart leaps, blood thrumming through his veins.

“Yuuri.” Victor's voice cracks on his name but he holds out his arms wide, begging for Yuuri's touch. Yuuri runs and trips into him, wrapping himself tightly around Victor's strong frame as Victor sighs, arms curling around him firmly. Yuuri nuzzles into his neck, pressing into the soft, shimmering feathers, and lets out a sigh that shakes him to his core. “I'm sorry, Yuuri; I should have gotten here sooner,” Victor rambles, “I should have – ”

“You're _**alive**_ ,” Yuuri cuts him off, leaning back just enough to look into Victor's wide, impossibly blue eyes, “I thought...” The lump in Yuuri's throat grows, choking his words, and Victor smile is small and heartbreaking as he pulls Yuuri back into his chest.

They hug tighter, and Yuuri feels the brush of Victor's lips on his temple. “I'm here,” Victor's voice rumbles through him and Yuuri's surprised he can hear it over the steady beat of his heart. “I've got you.”

Yuuri hates crying. He hates the way it crawls up his throat and the way his eyes sting, but as he buries his face into the ruffled feathers of Victor's chest, held tight to his warmth, he doesn't mind when a few tears slip through the cracks of his eyelids. Maybe, if he nuzzles in far enough, he can escape the sharp, metallic smell permeating their scene and drown himself in lilacs, disappear into the warm, comforting scent.

But there's no softness tonight and Victor's breath shakes out of his lungs painfully. Yuuri isn't sure who helps who back into the house and up their small set of stairs – Victor's clutching him so tightly he's worried he may lose his balance, but his own arm is around Victor's waist, falling into step together as the front door snaps shut behind them.

Immediately, they are barreled into by Yurio, barely up to Yuuri's hip. His thin arms wrap around Yuuri's legs tightly, nuzzling into the fabric. “You're okay!” Yurio whines. Smiling softly, Yuuri pats Yurio's head, whispering gentle platitudes while Victor hovers over to the fireplace. His hand waves over the embers and though his fingers waver, Christophe's face crackles back into view, burping out a cloud of noxious purple smoke.

He slumps, dramatically, against one of his logs. “Victor, I almost _**died**_!”

Victor dutifully ignores him and strolls over to J.J., who crosses his arms defiantly over his chest.

“Are you finally ready to fight me for your castle?” he questions. Victor holds out a hand for the gum and though J.J. raises an eyebrow, he spits the sticky wad in to Victor's waiting palm. It sparks and fizzles, flickering into ash when Victor curls his feathered fingers around it.

“You and I need to have a heart to heart chat,” J.J. sneers.

Victor smiles at him, ever polite. “I would certainly like that,” he responds, “But right now, I have work to do.”

Christophe hums from his perch, raising an eyebrow. If Yuuri didn't know better, he'd say there was a touch of pride to Christophe's voice. “How unlike you, Victor. Not running away anymore.”

Smooth as glass, Victor shoots Christophe a smile over his shoulder and almost immediately, imperceptibly, his gaze falls to Yuuri.

Yuuri's heart catches in his throat and Victor strolls towards him, long slender legs sliding across a floor he knows all too well. His hands rest on Yuuri's shoulders, though whether they're to ground him or Victor, he isn't quiet sure. They both look like they'd be swept up with the breeze if it weren't for the magnets in their stare keeping them connected.

“Stay here,” Victor pleads, “Christophe will protect you from the henchmen. I'll stand guard out front.”

He turns, fully intent on walking out, but Yuuri grips his bicep, pulls him back, forces him to meet Yuuri's eyes. “It's too dangerous,” Yuuri demands, grabbing Victor's other arm. Maybe if he can hold on to enough of him, he can keep him here. Keep him present. Keep him from flying out of Yuuri's life and back into that fire.

Victor gives him a pitiful look, smile uncertain even as his hands find their place at Yuuri's hips. Victor traces him with his eyes: the buttons of Yuuri's shirt, the pattern of his trousers, the colour of his hair. It's like he's trying to commit to memory every curve, every line. “Another wave is coming and Christophe is too weak to fight the bombs.”

Yuuri's heart sinks and he shakes his head, dropping his hands. “Let's run, then,” he whispers, “Don't fight them, Victor.”

Victor's gaze flicks to Yuuri's lips and there's a warmth to his eyes that Yuuri wishes he could latch onto, could pull in close and protect.

Victor's hand slides up Yuuri's chest in such a delicate gesture that Yuuri feels his breath drag from his throat, flashes of heat following the trail of Victor's fingers. Victor cups Yuuri's face, leans in, and the air between them ignites. That storm is behind Victor's eyes again, blocking out the sun that makes them so endlessly blue, and tears prick Yuuri's eyes as he leans into Victor's palm. Victor sucks in a breath and Yuuri feels the exhale puff against his cheek. “I'm sorry, Yuuri. I've had enough of running away,” he murmurs, catching one of Yuuri's stray tears with his thumb, “And now I've found something I want to protect.”

Yuuri's heart stops. The world stills. There's nothing but Victor, nothing but Victor's breath on his face and the brush of his feathers on his skin and the way Yuuri's name forms on Victor's lips. “It's _**you,**_ Yuuri.”

Yuuri's pulse is thudding in his ears, pounding out everything but the ache in his chest and lost to the look in Victor's eyes. “You'll die,” Yuuri chokes out. Victor's gaze flicks to Yuuri's pursed lips, just for a moment, before catching the flecks of brown and gold in Yuuri's shining irises.

Victor closes his eyes and leans in, pressing a hard, deliberate kiss to Yuuri's cheek. It burns, and Yuuri's skin thrums at the contact even after he pulls away. “For you,” Victor rasps, “I would die a thousand times over.”

Before Yuuri can respond Victor flies out, tearing out of Yuuri's grasp with such force Yuuri is certain he takes his heart with him, disappearing into the smoke filled sky that glitters with the embers of the burning city.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOWIE SORRY FOR THE DELAY I HOPE THIS MAKES UP FOR IT??
> 
> I try to update once a month but May was...wow May was shitty? Shitty and stressful and tiring.
> 
> Regardless, thank you for all of your comments and kudos and bookmarks. I am forever humbled by the feedback this story has gotten. If you want, go ahead and hit me up on my tumblr (pilindiel), if you have any questions or just want to interact and follow me and whatnot. <3
> 
> Also yeah, I totally gave Yurio abandonment issues. sorrynotsorry


	8. The Differences Between Magic and Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Real magic can never be made by offering someone else's liver. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back.”   
> ― Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn

The door bursts open and Yuuri is met with the wall of a storm, rolling off the hills of the Wastes. The raindrops are heavy as they splatter across Yuuri's heated skin, trailing through his hair and down his face, and Yuuri can smell smoke on the edge of the wind, can hear the rumbling of thunder and the crackling of flames.

Fire flashes on the horizon where Market Chipping sits, ash and smoke billowing from its destruction and Yuuri has never felt more helpless in his entire life.

Guilt coils with the fear in his chest, churning like molten iron, and even as rain smears down his glasses, Yuuri can still see the blaze of the city below.

He thinks back to the town square and its little stage, to the bakery, to his little shop and the musty smell of the train.

He thinks of Victor; of the brush of Victor's lips on his temple and the storm behind the blue of his eyes and the smell of lilacs.

Yuuri chokes on it, feels tears burn his eyes as the flames of his home flicker in the reflection of his glasses, and his hands curl at his sides, frightened and unsteady.

How is he supposed to just sit here and watch his life, his _**love**_ , be consumed by an uncaring world?

The panic curls up his neck, builds up in his chest and fills up his throat and Yuuri grits his teeth to hold back the bile. Rain splashes against him, pounding in time with his heart, and it thuds in his ears, dangerously loud. His mind races with colours and sights and sounds and screams and fire and rain and –

_**No.** _

Yuuri curls his fingers in tighter and his nails cut into his palm. The pain grounds him, gives him something to hold onto, and Yuuri hears his breathing over the thunder. He meters his inhales and exhales – ten counts in, seven counts out – and his expression turns stony. Resolved.

Determined.

The panic can wait. The _**fear**_ can wait.

_**It's time to act.** _

Yuuri ignores the tightening of his chest and rushes up the stairs of the castle, his boots slapping the wood.

When he gets inside he's met with several wide, expectant pairs of eyes, and Yuuri explains his plan with the intensity he hopes will convince his audience.

Of course, even as J.J. rushes to grab Makkachin and Yurio grabs his favourite book, he has a naysayer amongst his party.

“Are you _**crazy**_?” Christophe scoffs. Yuuri tries not to roll his eyes as he hastily throws a cloak around Yurio's thin shoulders, bundling him up against the gale outside. “I can't move the portals without Victor's help.”

“We have to try,” Yuuri rebukes, “Otherwise Victor will keep protecting the hat shop.”

He clips the cloak around Yurio tightly, muttering under his breath. “I preferred Victor as a coward.”

Christophe continues to eat away at Yuuri's already thin patience. “We can't do this; it will make us too vulnerable,” he complains.

Yuuri resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Sirens roar on the backs of the wind and _**they don't have time for this**_.

“We already are!” Yuuri snaps, nostrils flared, “And if we don't move quick, Victor doesn't have a chance.”

J.J.'s head ducks in from the bottom of the stairs, the tuft of his hair barely reaching over the top step. His voice cracks and that familiar flair of panic rises up Yuuri's neck like the flames licking the skyline. “Yuuri! They're about to bomb the hat shop.”

Yuuri snatches the cast iron shovel off of the wall and shoves it in Christophe's face. There's no more time to be nice. “You're coming with us.”

Christophe's mouth flops open in surprise, looking positively offended as his body crackles and snaps against the wood. “I _**can't**_ ,” he insists, fear swirling in the hazel of his eyes and God, _**they do not have time for this petty arguing**_ , “If you take me out this door, the castle could collapse.”

“Good!” Yuuri shouts. His voice stops them all short, frozen in their spots, and Christophe looks up at Yuuri with surprised, startled eyes.

“...Okay,” Christophe murmurs. With merciful determination, Yuuri eases the shovel beneath Christophe's face, giving him ample space to crawl onto it before lifting him up. Now that he has him in the air Yuuri can feel the weight of Christophe's body fully: he's small, like he could fit into the palm of Yuuri's hands, and he pulses with something Yuuri has never noticed before, like the pattering of the rain on the rooftop.

Yuuri doesn't have time to dwell on it.

“We're ready!” Yurio calls from outside.

Yuuri inhales, slow and deliberate, and takes the first hesitant steps down the stairs. “Okay, step back,” Yuuri instructs.

Christophe shudders as the wind blows through the open door, rustling him, and he crackles as he speaks. “Make sure I go out last, Yuuri,” he warns, “I'm not sure what will happen, but it won't be good.”

Yuuri nods and swallows, pivoting his stance.

With one last look at the interior, Yuuri steps backwards out the front door and watches as the world ends.

It starts off with a low hum, like the opposite of a lions roar. And then it escalates to the antithesis of the popping of bubblegum; a sharp intake, the reverse of an explosion.

And then it crashes. Metal creaks and breaks, wood splinters and snaps. Yuuri catches the shine of the floor as it flashes past in the rush, and the porcelain of the kitchen sink shatters as it's inhaled by an unseen force. He's thrown back into that nightmare for a frantic moment: the gaping, cavernous maw before him reeks of earth and decay, but the world is not a fog. It's painfully real and the rain slides between his shirt and his skin, chilling him.

Grounding him.

Root stands resolutely beside Yuuri, withstanding the brunt of the storm, and Yuuri can't help a familiar, distant warmth as the scarecrow sways, his scarf fluttering in the wind. If Yuuri didn't know any better, he'd say the painted smile on Root's face was almost impressed. Pleased.

The chaos stops after several moments and Christophe's voice is frantic, terrified. “Rain!” he shouts, using his tiny tendrils in a pathetic attempt to shelter himself. Yuuri shields him against his chest, but the droplets still smack against the iron, still singe the edges of Christophe's body. He tugs off his hat, the straw starchy and thick in his hands, and it's the best he can do with the shifting winds.

Immediately there's a roar in the air above, the clanging of metal and steel, and Yuuri can't breathe.

Yurio raises his hand to his forehead, squinting his eyes up at the relentless sky. “That ship's headed towards town!” he calls out.

Yuuri sucks in a breath that feels too sharp and the cold air stings his lungs.

“Root,” Yuuri croaks, “Help me find a way back in.”

Dutifully, the scarecrow hops off and Yuuri ducks around the other side, trying to cover Christophe's body with his hat, trying to desperately protect him from the smattering of rain.

Yuuri bobs and weaves around fallen beams, ducks under a broken chimney, and his body feels like it's collapsing around his lungs, clutching and tightening as each opening is smaller, each entrance is blocked. They need to get inside and out of this rain, they need to get moving and keep Christophe protected and Victor, God they need to get to Victor –

A frantic tapping whips Yuuri around and Root stands diligently by a hole just big enough to squeeze through. Yuuri lets out a breath he forgot he was holding as he rushes over.

“Yurio! J.J.!” he shouts over the thunder, “Here's a way in!”

When Yuuri squeezes through the hole, this is not exactly what he had in mind. Though there is a semblance of a ceiling, it's dripping with rainwater and though there's whispers of what once was – the glossy floor, the white-washed stones – everything else is musty and smells of soggy wood and rot.

It's a mess, and not one Yuuri has time to clean up.

He dumps Christophe unceremoniously onto the driest part of stone he can find and ignores his griping as he cracks an old stool on the ground, letting it splinter into kindling.

“It's _**wet**_ here, Yuuri,” Christophe whines.

Yuuri ignores him, glowering as he dumps his make-shift firewood onto Christophe's flickering face.

“The castle's a wreck,” J.J. grouses as he stumbles inside with Yurio in tow. Yurio snuggles further into his cloak, Makkachin bounding at his side, and Yuuri sucks stale air into his lungs through his nose.

Remember the plan. No distractions. No changes. This will work.

It has to.

“We have to tell Victor we aren't attached to the hat shop now,” Yuuri instructs, turning his attention back to Christophe, “Move the castle and take us to Victor.”

Christophe tuts, an irritated sound. “ _ **What**_?”

Yuuri forces a smile through the tension in his face, tries to ease his heart rate.

“I know you can do it – I've never seen a fire with more spark.”

Christophe must hear the sincerity, must understand Yuuri's desperation, because he lets out a sigh that sends flurries of sparks in the air. “Alright,” he concedes, “But I need something of yours.”

Yuuri's brow wrinkles and he can feel the ground shift beneath his feet, unsteady. “Huh?”

“I can't do it all by myself,” Christophe explains. He smirks, just slightly, and Yuuri has the urge to hide himself. “How about your eyes?”

“My _**eyes**_?” Yuuri echoes, fingers tightening reflexively around the brim of his hat. The straw digs into his palm and it's warm, a gentle familiarity.

He remembers when he first made it; he had just taken over the hat shop from his father and Minako, in the excitable, affluent way she does, had said it was too plain for someone as handsome as Yuuri.

Yuuri felt that the plainness fit him, that he was suited for it. Yuuri Katsuki was inconsequential, a wallflower, a shadow of a person. Too shy to announce himself and too withdrawn to try.

Yuuri drags the pad of his thumb over one of the swollen red berries stuck to the band and is reminded of the swell of summer heat, the tang of warm black tea on his tongue.

Makkachin nudges his leg, tail wagging idly from side to side, and Yuuri swallows around a lump in his throat.

Yuuri Katsuki can't afford to be inconsequential.

“How about this?” he asks, holding out the brim with shaking fingers.

Christophe glaces at Yuuri, watches the way Yuuri's eyes skitter to the side after their stares meet, and takes the hat gingerly from his hands.

Christophe consumes it in what feels like slow-motion; his flames lick around the brim until it disappears into his body, turning into ash in his mouth. He shimmers like starlight, like _**magic**_ , and the already stagnant air grows heavy with unseen weight. Light bursts forth from Christophe's body, a pulsing, beating sight, and Christophe grows, standing tall and slender.

His hazel eyes glimmer, almost green in the firelight, and Yuuri swears he sees body and definition in the flames. It looks like he's dancing, a black mesh material crawling across the expanse of muscles on his torso, bleeding into the glittering red lines across his chest and arms. Christophe smirks at Yuuri, teeth gleaming between a touch of facial hair, and he gives Yuuri a wink that makes his ears burn.

With a laugh, Christophe shoves his hands into the ceiling and _**lifts**_.

There's the groaning of metal, planks of wood collapse and reform and the whining strain of moving parts greets Yuuri as Christophe pushes, his golden hair fluttering in the wind that gusts through holes in the castle. The structure moans under the weight and the floor feels uneven beneath Yuuri's feet but Christophe holds firm, his furrowed concentration easing into a smile.

And then they're moving, and Yuuri's coiled stomach finally starts to unwind.

“You're fantastic, Christophe!” Yuuri calls over the ruckus, unable to hide his smile.

Christophe's chuckle is deep and sonorous, reminding Yuuri of old cemeteries and ancient mountains. “Think of what I could have done with your eyes,” Christophe jokes, “Or your heart!”

“His... _ **heart**_?” J.J. murmurs. His stare is quizzical, but Yuuri doesn't have time to focus on it.

Yuuri clamors over to one of the cracks in the wall, peering out through the rain. J.J. mutters something, his eyes shining as he brushes past towards the fire, but Yuuri's gaze is drawn to the destruction in the distance, painted with bright, hazardous lines of orange and red.

He swears he sees a shape amongst the flames, silver and huge and writhing, and his stomach curls in knots so tight they make him nauseous. No, no they will make it and Victor will be alright. They've made it this far. Just a little more –

“You have Victor's heart!” J.J. shouts. The world slows as Yuuri turns and he feels flushed, hot, and his throat burns with the stuffy air.

“No!” Christophe's voice chokes out of his chest and Yuuri's breath leaves his.

J.J. pulls Christophe out of their make-shift hearth, and his long, skinny fingers wrap around the pulsing flame of Christophe's squirming, wriggling body.

“Victor's heart is mine!” J.J. proclaims, triumphant. Christophe pulses in J.J.'s hands, menacingly bright, and then the fire consumes him.

It licks up the fabric on J.J.'s arms and Yuuri is too slow to stop the panic that permeates their small space.

Yurio is shrieking, crying out for help as J.J.'s body is overrun with a blazing, flickering inferno and Yuuri's fingers dig into J.J's hands, frantic and unsteady.

“Put it back!” Yuuri cries, dizzy. The world is spinning and Yuuri can't focus, can't catch what's being said over the pounding of his heart.

“No,” J.J. wails and his voice sounds like liquid; muddled to Yuuri's ears. “It's _ **mine**_!”

There's screaming and shouting and Yuuri can't breathe, he's choking on air and his mind is a frenzy and it's _**too much**_.

Yuuri feverishly grabs a bucket, filled to the brim with cold rainwater, and the rusted metal handle burns his palms as he throws it.

The water splashes all over J.J.'s body, dousing the fire, and the steam is hot and sticky.

Yuuri's eyes widen behind the fog of his glasses but before the guilt can sting too deep the ground cracks beneath his feet.

The floor splinters, splitting in half, and the last thing Yuuri hears is Yurio's hysterical cry of his name before he's sent tumbling back, falling off the side of the mountain with Makkachin cowering at his ankles.

“ _ **Yuuri**_!”

* * *

A gasp rattles through his lungs when Yuuri comes to and he gulps oxygen in so quickly he chokes on it. He scrambles into a sitting position, a hand over his pounding heart, and surveys the wreckage.

He has no idea how long he's been down here, in this crevice surrounded by splinters of wood and corroborated metal, but there rain has stopped and Yuuri is stuck kneeling in mud. He wishes it _**was**_ raining – anything to numb the heat boiling through him. It would at least paralyze the fear and stave off the guilt.

The world is unsteady and Yuuri's head throbs with every beat of his heart, but he just stays put. Unmoving. Rooted to his spot on the disgustingly warm, sludgy ground.

Makkachin ambles over to him, nudging his hand affectionately, and Yuuri's eyes widen with pain he's forced himself not to feel.

It crashes on him like a landslide, covering his body and suffocating him. He can't breathe around the fear that clogs his throat, can't see through the tears that make his vision swim. It's too much, and it rips out of Yuuri's chest like a hand reaching around his heart, yanking out all his emotion with savage, unbridled cruelty.

A sob breaks through him violently and it's too much at once. The guilt twists in his gut, the fear stabs him behind the eyes and in his delicate lungs, and the disappointment – in the failed plan, in _**himself**_ – tears at his fragile skin.

“What have I done?” he gasps, words dying and breaking in his wrecked throat, “I poured _**water**_ on Christophe...” Makkachin prods his hand again, craving attention, but all Yuuri can do is fist his fingers into the poodle's coarse fur, to let the curls twine around his fingers and hope they suffocate him.

Yuuri buries his face in Makkachin's neck and the question is spat out against the unfeeling ground, scraping Yuuri's throat raw. “What I killed Victor, too?”

It hurts more to say out loud than Yuuri would think and the tears it produces burn down his face, leaving long, invisible scars beneath his skin. He longs for the days when he didn't feel this much, when he didn't want this much. When his life was dull and gray and the colours were muted and not full of Victor's bright smile and his impossibly blue eyes.

It's not fair. He loves Victor and it's not fair.

Something tightens around Yuuri's finger, pulsating warmth as it contracts, and Yuuri staggers away from his companion as he stares at his hand.

It's the ring Victor gave him: dull, unpolished silver with that glimmering jewel, and the strange language around the band swirls and twists against his skin.

“It's moving,” Yuuri breathes. The jewel glows, a gradient of dark to light blue, and Yuuri is reminded of a soothing voice, a pirouette on a rooftop.

“Is Victor still alive?” It's like a whisper of air, a desperate plea. Yuuri holds his shaking hand in its twin and he dares to hope. “Can you lead me to him?”

The light dances for a moment on the back of Yuuri's knuckles before launching towards the wreckage, shining against a door of solid oak – tall and majestic and pristine among the splinters.

Yuuri scrambles to his feet, slipping only once, and stumbles towards where the signal pulls him.

It's still beautifully intact, still with iron plating and the ornate brass handle, but the dial points to a single colour now: a dark, inky, and all encompassing black.

Yuuri inhales sharply.

“The front door,” he murmurs. Makkachin stands obediently at his side and Yuuri idly pats his head before he yanks the door open.

For a moment, it looks empty and Yuuri's heart sinks. But the darkness is strangely tangible, reflecting light like ice or gelatin, and when Yuuri sinks a hesitant hand in it feels slick around his fingers. Goopy, like a sickness.

A breeze brushes past him, rustling his clothes, but there's a pull to it too, and it curls around him. Beckons him into the heart of the darkness.

Yuuri takes a resolute breath. Squares his shoulders.

And he plunges in.

The air is thick as soon as Yuuri walks through the barrier and for a moment he's terrified he can't breathe, like it's too heavy to swallow. His legs trudge through unseen inhibitors – like sliding through molasses – but he continues on, following the dull glow from his finger and hanging on a wish.

Darkness swirls before him and then the shapelessness takes form, absorbs the light beaming from Yuuri's hand.

Yuuri notices a table first: cherry wood that gleams in the moonlight and a matching chair. Then there's a cot by the wall, a book thrown over the sheets and haphazardly left open. As Yuuri walks towards it, the whole room paints itself for him: the wooden beams across the ceiling, the small bench by the window, the stove against the far wall. The floor feels solid under Yuuri's feet, a light polish to compliment the faded sandstone of the walls, and he glides towards the door, easing off the latch.

The door opens to a field – familiar rolling of hills, familiar sparkling lake, the creak of the water wheel Yuuri has grown accustomed to – and Yuuri's ring constricts around his finger, the jewel's light fading to a dull, faceless gray.

Colours streak across the sky, splashes of purples, reds, greens, and blues that collide with the ground and explode in a cascade of sparks and hues, and Yuuri watches them in awe as they light up the twilight.

Falling stars. Yuuri has heard many stories of the magic that colludes around such an event, but he's never witnessed them before, and the sight is truly stunning.

Movement catches his eye, a shimmer of light, and Yuuri can't stop his gasp.

Just across the lake is a slender young man, barely out of adolescence. His long silver hair is tied back away from his handsome face, and the colours exploding around him dance across the iridescence of his shirt – all twinkling silvers and blues. He's younger; his muscles don't fill him out and his legs aren't nearly as long, but those _**eyes**_.

They're unmistakable.

“That's Victor,” Yuuri whispers, his words a rasp in his throat. Yuuri takes the small set of stairs by the house two at a time and launches himself into the tall grass, ignoring how the weeds and burrs prick at his skin and cling to his trousers. The ring tightens around his finger almost painfully, but Yuuri can't focus on it.

His mind is whirling, but it keeps arriving at the same conclusion:

_**I'm in Victor's childhood!** _

The ground sinks like sand as Yuuri runs through it and it feels dreamlike: a trek that is both too long and too short all at once.

But Yuuri is determined. He needs to see _**why**_ he's here, _**what**_ he's meant to witness.

Something suctions to Yuuri's shoes, sucking him into the ground, and Yuuri desperately tries to kick off the excess of dirt and mud as it curls up his calves. His heart hammers in his chest, threatening to destroy his rib cage, but a star, brighter than all the others, streaks across the sky and draws Yuuri in.

It slams into Victor's waiting palms, sparking in stunning orange and yellow. He's whispering something, but Yuuri can't hear it over the manic beating of his heart and the rush of the wind. All he can do is stare, wide eyed, as Victor smiles and swallows the sparks and the light, bathing them back in darkness.

Victor spasms and coughs, clutching his chest, and Yuuri wants to race across the water to console him, but then there's a faint glow in Victor's delicate hands, flickering against the backdrop of the sky.

A fire is pulsing in Victor's gentle palms.

A fire with hazel eyes and a lazy smile.

Yuuri's heart catches in his throat.

The pain around Yuuri's finger reaches a tipping point, and the ring cracks so loud it shakes the earth.

Everything disappears from beneath Yuuri's feet and Yuuri is falling, wind whipping around him and tearing at his clothes. He's being pulled back, he can feel the stagnant heat of the air, and it pushes down on him like hundreds of hands, shoving him back to where he belongs.

Frantic, terrified, Yuuri turns his gaze back to Victor in the distance. He doesn't know what he wants to say, what he's _**supposed**_ to say, so he let's his heart take over and hopes that it's enough.

“Victor! Christophe!” They turn, their faces blurring, and Yuuri's voice cracks on his words, “It's me, Yuuri. I know how to help you now!” He feels like laughing. He feels like crying. The hands shove him down, down into the darkness, and Yuuri cries out at the top of his lungs just as they disappear from view.

“ _ **Find me in the future!**_ ”

The hands win and Yuuri succumbs to their weight, falling through the sky.

Everything is a haze. Colours pass him in a whirl, songs and words spin through his mind. He sees shapes that disappear and reform before returning to the dark. Yuuri has no idea which way the sun points, where the ground starts and Yuuri ends, and he feels both dizzy from it and comforted by it. The air is warm but not agonizingly so, and there's something in the distance that is both gentle and quiet. It draws Yuuri in like an embrace, curls around him and brushes its lips against his forehead, and suddenly there's a body at his side.

His fur caresses Yuuri's hand and Yuuri's fingers instinctively move to entwine them with his fingers. Makkachin wheezes, the only sound that registers, and Yuuri lets him lead, unsure of their destination.

Yuuri touches his face, his tears wet and hot against his cheeks, and Makkachin looks back at him with eyes that seem too understanding, too concerned.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says with a laugh, wiping his eyes, “I can't seem to stop crying.”

They walk through the darkness together and though tears spill freely from Yuuri's eyes, he feels weightless and he lets that carry him into the light.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Shows up to the update 20 years late with a starbucks-
> 
> Lmao I kid, I kid. Sorry for the delay on this chapter, everyone! I spent July moving into my new apartment across the country and job hunting, but now that I'm settled with both we have the lovely chapter 8 and more of Yuuri's anxieties.
> 
> We're nearing the close of this story and I feel like I keep putting it off. I want it to be perfect, but I also don't want it to end because this story means so much to me. :')
> 
> Feel free to comment with any questions or follow me at my [tumblr](http://pilindiel.tumblr.com/) and ask away! Comments and kudos are always, forever appreciated.


	9. The Promise of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He was no longer scared of what tomorrow might bring because yesterday has brought it.”  
> ― Neil Gaiman, American Gods

The sun is just starting to peak over the horizon, making the inky black bleed into calming periwinkle, but Yuuri doesn't notice it. He doesn't feel the prickle of the morning chill on the wind or the brush of Makkachin's warmth against his leg as he moves, nor does he hear the clacking of the front door behind him as the magic in it gets sucked into empty oblivion.

No, Yuuri's attention is drawn to the hulking mass of silver feathers across the wreckage from him, breathing heavy and rasping.

Yuuri's expression hardens as he tries to ignore the stinging smell of blood  when he approaches, but that’s not all.  There's the stench of pestilence in the air like the burning flesh of a corpse and though Yuuri attempts to block the thoughts out, it's impossible to be rid of the heavy feeling in his stomach.

The figure doesn't shift away even as Yuuri's shaking hands reach up to part the break in the plumage, glittering like glass in the waxing sunlight, and a name tumbles past Yuuri's lips.

Not that it was ever a secret who this is – Yuuri's nightmares have made sure this scenario was always in the forefront of his mind.

Now though, faced with the reality, faced with the truth, Yuuri is surprised he isn't nearly as terrified as he thought he would be.

Victor's skin is pale and the shadows his feathers cast across his face make him look gaunt and hollow. Empty. It's a terrible contrast: Victor is supposed to be flushed and smiling and **_bright_ **.

Yuuri's fingers tremble as they brush Victor's cheek, trying to breathe some warmth back into his skin, to bring some light back into the blue of his unseeing eyes, but it does nothing.

Yuuri isn't surprised by it.

“I'm sorry,” Yuuri whispers, forcing a smile, “I didn't mean to make you wait this long.” He leans up on his toes, a hand on Victor's frigid chest for balance, and the lips he presses to Victor's cheek are as timid as they are warm.

Victor doesn't move, his eyes unfocused and hazy, but Yuuri swears he feels a shudder beneath the press of his hand.

“I need you to take me to Christophe, if you can,” Yuuri murmurs.

Victor shifts, feathers molting and tumbling away as he does, and a large talloned leg emerges from the recesses of Victor's body. The huge claw clacks against the ground but the toes spread apart gently, and Yuuri can't stop the fondness in his chest from swelling.

Yuuri is reminded of stolen glances, of the shift in Victor's weight when he would try to hide his arm from Yuuri's intense gaze, and Yuuri's throat tightens.

Even now, a part of Victor is still so scared of frightening him.

**_Oh Victor,_ ** he wants to say, **_Don't you know I never could be?_ **

Instead Yuuri shakes his head and steps onto the protruding leg, curling his fingers around downy plumage. Makkachin ambles up next to him and with a flutter of silver wings they take to the sky.

Wind whips at Yuuri's clothes – the cold morning air is biting and blows right through him, chilling him down to the bone. He wants to bury his face in Victor's side, wants to let the world fall away as he gathers his thoughts, but Yuuri forces himself to remain still. If he tries to take comfort now, the business of his mind will consume him. Even now the thoughts he'd like to avoid are popping up. They’re terrible thoughts, doubts that coil around his heart and pull until Yuuri is breathless and his grip tightens. Resolutely, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowed as they continue their flight. It feels both too long and too short – like the world isn't quite settled yet.

Yuuri is surveying the ground below them when early morning sunlight catches several long, polished planks of wood. It sits on two creaking, broken legs that screech with rusted metal and as they approach, Yuuri can't stop the dread and fear that starts to simmer in his stomach.

That's all that's left of the castle. Their home, their **_lives_ **. It amounts to nothing more than broken machinery and scratched wood, the last remnants of Victor's freedom and Yuuri's growth and heaven help him, was that all it was ever supposed to amount –

**_No,_ ** Yuuri demands, swallowing down the anxiety that bubbles in his chest, **_No, there is more to life than that._ ** He rubs his eyes furiously with the back of his arm, forcing the tears back down. **_There is more to us than this._ **

They land delicately on the platform, but as soon as Yuuri steps away, Victor falls to the ground like a sack of rocks. His feathers break away from him,  as they catch the wind and disappear into the sky, and Yuuri is at his side in an instant. The panic flares, like it always does, and Yuuri's chest feels like it's stuffed with cotton as he kneels and shifts Victor's body.

He's cold. Victor isn't supposed to be cold.

Trembling, Yuuri brushes Victor's hair from his face and hopes his heart beat isn't as loud as it feels.

Yurio's voice rouses him back to reality. “He's dead?”

Yuuri shakes his head and surprises himself with how level his voice is. “No,” Yuuri breathes, turning to their companions. “Not yet.”

J.J. is huddled in the corner. Or rather, he's huddled in the farthest place away from them that he can be, his back to Yuuri and his shoulders hunched. His normally meticulously put together purple suit jacket is slipping off his shoulder and torn at the seam, Yuuri notices, and as he approaches he can still see the dark splotches of water on his clothes where Yuuri had splashed him.

Yuuri tries his best to be kind, to be understanding, but his throat is too tight to manage, too unwieldy, and J.J. flinches at the mere sound of his name.

“J.J. – ”

J.J. sniffs loudly, pathetically, and Yuuri is reminded just how **_young_ ** J.J. is when he puts a gentle hand on his shoulder, turning him around as tenderly as he can.

It opens the floodgates.

J.J. can't meet Yuuri's gaze but that doesn't mean Yuuri can't see the tears pricked in the corners of his eyes, his hands clutched tightly around a delicately pulsing blue fire.

“I didn't mean to!” J.J. hiccups, tears streaming down his soot-stained cheeks. Yuuri's chest tightens and he doesn't even hesitate to pull J.J. into his arms, holding the boy as emotion wrenches through him. “I just...I wanted Victor to **_notice_ ** me.”

“I know,” Yuuri whispers, running his fingers through J.J.'s wet hair, “I know.” J.J. shivers, curls into Yuuri's arms and cradles his treasure close to his chest and all Yuuri can do is hold J.J. as sobs wreck his small body. “It's okay,” Yuuri promises, running a hand up and down J.J.'s shoulders, “It's okay.”

It takes far too long for J.J.'s tears to subside, but when they do, Yuuri places a hand over the boy's and squeezes his fingers.

“Victor needs this back,” he explains as pale blue flames flicker in-between the cracks of J.J.'s fingers.

J.J.'s eyes never leave Yuuri's – such a dark contrast to Victor's but still just as vibrant – and he sniffles once more, wiping his nose on his shirt sleeve.

“I'm so **_sorry_ ** ,” he reiterates, chewing the inside of his lip.

Yuuri reaches out and lightly brushes the fringe away from J.J.'s face. “It's okay,” Yuuri placates as he holds out his hands, “I can fix it.”

He only hopes he sounds more convincing than he feels.

J.J. lowers what’s left of the sleepy, gently crackling fire demon into Yuuri's waiting palms. 

It's the weight that surprises Yuuri the most; it's like a small bird, light and fragile, and Yuuri is convinced that any sudden movement will snuff him out. Still, Christophe is warm and fluttering in his hands. Yuuri whispers his name, hoping against hope that his solution to their problem is right.

He has no way to save Victor if it's not.

“Christophe?”

The fire swirls, crackling for a moment, and the demon's eyes blur into view. Still deep-set, still hazel, but fuzzy and unfocused. Yuuri's swallows the gasp that threatens to rise up his throat.

“Yuuri,” Christophe breathes and Yuuri's blood runs far too hot beneath the chill of his sweat, “I'm so tired.”

“Chris.” Yuuri swallows, closes his eyes and forces the words out. “If I give Victor back his heart, what will happen to you?”

The flames around Christophe's lips twitch into a smile; feeble, but with just a twinge of fondness. “It'll be fine if you do it,” he explains, light twinkling in his eyes, “After all, you dumped water on me and Victor and I both survived.”

Yuuri nods even though the fear coils around his lungs and tightens like a vice. “I better try, then,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. He kneels down,holds Christophe – no, Victor's heart – close to his chest and breathes slow and deep.

**_Ten counts in, seven counts out._ **

The wood is a hard, cold contrast as it cuts into his knees but it grounds him, and that's what Yuuri needs. He centers himself, uses the heart in his hands as a cornerstone and focuses on the warmth bleeding into his skin from the flames. It's like he can almost feel Victor's energy and strength and **_love_ ** pouring into every part of him. He can't help his smile.

“Please,” Yuuri begs to anyone listening, “Please help Christophe live. And please help Victor take back his heart.”

Heart pounding loudly in his ears, Yuuri lowers the flickering fire onto Victor's chest and turns his palms forward into the fabric, letting Christophe fall like water through his hands. Yuuri bites the inside of his cheek, but there's little resistance as Victor's heart and Christophe fade from reality into Victor's chest. The air becomes thick and warm like the impending signs of a rainstorm, but Yuuri can't focus on it. Magic sparks from beneath Yuuri's fingers – splashes of green and red and blue – and a dazzling light shoots out of Victor's body like a rocket, swirling around them dizzily before flying off into the sky.

Still Yuuri watches, and the world stills.

And then Victor takes a breath.

It's shuddering and shallow, but the rise and fall of his chest is enough to make Yuuri giddy with relief. Tears burn behind his eyes, threatening to overwhelm him, and Yurio's cries of elation almost send him over the edge.

His hands shake as they cup Victor's cheeks, as he feels the warmth flow back beneath his still pale skin, and he whispers out a quiet thank you to whatever god out there who's listening.

Then the planks they're sitting on start to list. Yuuri has barely enough time to brace Victor to his chest before the floor cracks and splinters and the ground rushes to meet them.

There's nothing Yuuri can do as the last feeble legs of their home tumbles down the cliff, metal creaking and snapping as it smacks against unforgiving slate. There are screams all around as they fall, the children are cowering on both sides of him as the polished floor beneath their feet groans with the weight and pressure.  Yuuri is helpless, holding Victor's limp body in his arms as they skid across the uneven earth towards god knows where.

Yuuri can't breathe.

A streak of colour flashes forward – a splash of light blue, a smattering of white – and the scarecrow, Yuuri's scarecrow, **_Root_ ** , slams his pole defiantly into the dirt.

Yuuri cries out, but he has a feeling Root won't heed his warning.

Splinters of wood and rock and debris fly past them as Root slows their descent and dear God, Yuuri can see the flinders of Root's body chip away with each stone, can see the shreds of his pole ground by each scrape against the earth.

Something snaps, loud and sickening, and though the beams they're sitting on jolt from the force, their nosedive is halted and Yuuri scrambles to his feet.

The scarecrow lies motionless in two at the edge of their tattered floor and Yuuri slips on the uneven boards as he clambers to their hero's side. Yuuri hoists Root in his arms, careful not to jostle the already fractured pole. He's met with a tan, knobby face and a painted on grin. “Are you alright?” Yuuri asks, worry coating his throat, “We'll get you a new pole, okay?”

Root doesn't respond but Yuuri holds him close all the same, his hands slowly smoothing the lumps on the scarecrow's face. “You saved us, Root,” Yuuri marvels. Relief and gratitude crash through him like a wave and tears burn Yuuri's eyes as he pulls Root into a bone-crushing hug. A sob hiccups in his throat, as painful as it is comforting, and he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Root's cheek.

The result is instantaneous.

Wind, sudden and rapid with a myriad of purples, pinks, blues and yellows surround what remains of Root's body, swirling and twisting as it lifts Root out of Yuuri's arms. Yuuri catches snippets of him through the light – a flash of his sleeve, the top of his hat – but it's too fast to follow and Yuuri loses track of him in the warm, glowing spiral.

It settles just as quickly as it came.

In Root's place is a young man: tan skin, jet black hair, and dark gray eyes that exude an air of unbridled cheerfulness.

“Thank you, Yuuri,” the young man says, grin wide and honest as he bows. There are shades of the scarecrow still in him: the immaculate white of his blazer with that stunningly intricate blue trim, the navy shirt and matching trousers, but what strikes Yuuri most is the expression on the young man's face.  The familiarity he felt before tugs more insistently at his heart. The memories surge and reform, flooding his lungs with a combination of excitement and extreme, utter **_embarrassment_ **.

It was years ago now, but Yuuri still remembers fragments.

A warm spring afternoon. A parade Yuuri avoided. The smells of confections and street food. A young man, **_this_ ** young man, sauntering up to him as he glittered with gold embellishments on his deep red suit. A young man full of exuberance who insisted Yuuri show him around the city -

**_It's my first time in a place like this!_ **

\- who was wholly enamoured with the food and the culture of Yuuri's hometown -

**_Your shops are so strange and colourful!_ **

\- a young man who never left Yuuri's side and kept reiterating that the parade wasn't interesting and **_the prince was bored anyway_ **...

Yuuri hadn't made the connection before, but seeing the mirth in the dark gray of his irises and the delicately twisted silver circlet around the meticulous part in his hair, has Yuuri's face heating up in a mixture of surprise and absolute mortification.

**_Oh Yuuri,_ ** his mind chides unhelpfully, **_Only you could forget meeting a prince._ **

“P-Phichit?!”

“Yes!” Phichit responds emphatically, “I'm the prince who's been missing from the neighboring kingdom. Somehow I got that spell put on me – ”

“I know that spell!” Yurio pipes up, “A kiss from someone you love breaks it.”

“That's right!” Phichit replies amicably, getting down on his knees to speak at Yurio's level, “If it weren't for Yuuri, I'd be stuck as a scarecrow for my entire life!”

Victor shudders at Yuuri's side and it all fades into nothing – meaningless chatter that can't catch up with the frantic beating of Yuuri's heart.

“Ugh...” Victor groans, sounding like the ugly lovechild of sleep-deprivation and nausea, “What's going on?”

The hoarse scrape of those words is heaven sent and he's at Victor's side in seconds, a hand on his shoulder when Victor – foolish, beautiful, alive and breathing **_Victor_ ** – tries to sit up too fast.

Relief barely scratches the surface of what Yuuri feels.

“I feel terrible,” Victor rasps. A hand flies to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and his breathing hitches. “It's like there's a stone weighing me down.”

There are tears in his eyes but God, how could Yuuri worry about that at a time like this? He smiles, watery and sincere.

“A heart's a heavy burden,” he says sagely, laughing around the boyish excitement flooding through him.

It's then that Victor notices him and his expression softens into what Yuuri is just starting to realize is pure, unadulterated adoration and Yuuri wants to cry for a whole different reason.

“Yuuri.” The way Victor says his name is elegant and soft, like a whisper, and it pulls Yuuri into his orbit like it has so many times already.  There's no storm behind Victor's eyes this time.  There's no distance stopping Yuuri from latching onto his expression.

The tears that fall from Yuuri's eyes are caught on Victor's fingertips as Victor cups his cheek and pulls him closer.

“Your hair looks like the night sky on water,” Victor marvels, his other hand hovering on Yuuri's hipbone, “It's beautiful.” Yuuri matches the smile Victor graces him with and when the space between them shrinks and liquefies, when Victor's gravity pulls him ever closer, when Yuuri can catch the flecks of silver and green in Victor's irises and Victor can count the gold in his, neither one of them hesitates.

There is no such thing as a perfect first kiss. There are logistics that can only be improved with practice and trust, like the puckering of the lips or the press of a tongue, but when your first kiss is with the right person, it doesn't really matter if Yuuri's lips are chapped or Victor presses too far forward and they both lose their balance.

What matters is the tingling of their skin when they part, their breathless smiles and the tears in Yuuri's eyes as he eagerly leans in and captures Victor's lips again and again.  When Victor shifts the angle and Yuuri melts....Well, perhaps perfect **_is_ ** the right word for it.

* * *

 

The cliff-side of the Wastes is so much nicer when the rain has subsided – when the sunlight is clear and the dew is not hovering like a fog over the ground – and the view goes on for miles. Green hills roll along the mountainside, stunning streams of water catch the mid-morning light, and when Yuuri takes a deep breath, the air is clear and free of fire and ash. 

Even so, Yuuri can see what is left of Market Chipping from this vantage point – a smoking shadow of its former self – and his stomach twists painfully.

Victor's hand squeezes his shoulder, a tender comfort, and Yuuri tries not to dwell on it. Recovery takes time. Life takes time. And if Yuuri has learned anything, it's that people endure.

He will, too.

There's a flash of light – a blinding mixture of purple, blue, red and green – and Yuuri holds out his hands to catch the star as it falls. The moment he touches it, the star pools into his palms and ignites into flame, and the warmth it spreads extends all the way down to the tips of his toes.

Christophe's hazel eyes and hazy smile beam up at him through the twinkling embers.

“You didn't have to come back, Christophe,” Victor teases, though Yuuri can feel the way his fingers flex a little tighter on the meat of Yuuri's bicep.

“What?” Christophe purrs, switching his attention to the wizard, “Are you saying you didn't miss me? We all know you're hopeless without me, Victor.”

Yuuri laughs and he feels lighter than he ever has in his entire life, giddy on a combination of relief and exhaustion.

“I missed you too, Christophe,” Yuuri says, giving him a smile. If he didn't know any better, he'd say the flames around the apples of Christophe's cheeks sparkled blue.

“What do we do now?” Yurio asks, pudgy fingers tugging at the hem of Yuuri's shirt.

“We start over,” Victor says.

Quietly, imperceptibly, Yuuri's hand finds Victor's and their fingers lace, Victor's fitting perfectly in the spaces between Yuuri's. Their eyes meet – sky blue and honey brown – and Yuuri realizes he'll never need any more reassurance than this. As long as Victor keeps looking at him like this, he feels invincible.

“Yes,” Yuuri breathes, his ears burning, “Let's start over.” 

* * *

 

There's something endearingly complicated about life. It gets harder the longer it goes, and though your valleys may deepen, it also means your peaks reach new heights.

The melody of the symphony below, a timid waltz of deep cello strings and flighty violins, reminds Yuuri of a busy market square and pirouettes on rooftops.  He recalls the breeze of something new and exciting that day, even though it was laced with an underlying anxiety Yuuri isn't sure he'll ever be fully rid of.

A warm hand settles on the small of his back, reassuring, and it breaks Yuuri from his thoughts long enough to lean into the man who comes to stand at his side.

Yuuri can feel Victor's smile as his lips press into Yuuri's forehead.

“I could hear you thinking from the other room,” Victor chides and Yuuri can't stop the mirthful chuckle that rumbles out of his chest. Victor's hand slides to his waist, pulling him in that much closer, and Yuuri hums.

“I'll try to think quieter next time,” he teases, though he still looks off into the distant clouds, watching them roll past as the castle continues its lazy float across the sky. Victor's fingers slide just under the hem of his shirt, pressing a little into the skin in question, and Yuuri answers it in kind.

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we hadn't met?” Yuuri's mouth runs away from him as it always does when his thoughts bog him down and though he trips over his words, Victor remains silent, listening. “Or, if I...If I had **_killed_ ** Christophe that day or if you didn't take your heart back or you found me too boring or ugly or – or if I didn't take your hand that day and we didn't...”

Victor's thumb brushes against Yuuri's hipbone and the cool wind chills some of the tension mounting in Yuuri's chest. “Didn't what?” Victor leads.

Yuuri can feel the heat rise on his cheeks even now, and he turns his face into Victor's shoulder defiantly. “...If we didn't fall in love,” he finishes.

Victor's arm winds around Yuuri then, turning Yuuri slowly in his arms. Yuuri leans back against the railing, the metal cold but not uncomfortable, and his hands find their places on Victor's chest, nestled on either side of the strong beat of his heart.

Like magnets, Yuuri's eyes find Victor's and he gets lost in the mirth and adoring blue of those irises like he has thousands of times now. Like he will thousands of times more.

Victor smiles, childlike in its honesty, and wraps his arms around Yuuri's waist.

“Yuuri,” he whispers, “I will always fall in love with you. Anytime, anywhere, any place, I will find you. In this life and the next.” The music wafting from below changes to something gentler and they subconsciously begin to sway as Victor continues. “You have bewitched me,” he breathes, “Captured my very soul for all eternity. And I can't imagine it being in better hands.”

Yuuri's face flushes as his heart soars and oh, he's overwhelmed and so flustered but he's so, so very happy.

Victor has that effect on him – making him feel so many things at once and never once making Yuuri regret it.

“Did Christophe feed you that line?” Yuuri taunts, burying himself in Victor's neck like it will hide the stretch of his smile or the flush to his cheeks.

Victor grins, nuzzling into Yuuri's hair. “It's a good line though, right?”

Yuuri hums and closes his eyes. “It's sappy,” he says.

**_Sappy._ ** Sappy is something Yuuri Katsuki is happily getting used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP sorry for being away for so long?
> 
> A lot of things happened; some good and some bad. The good thing is I got all moved in, adopted a cat, got a great job that I love, and my bf and I celebrated our two year anniversary at the end of October.
> 
> Bad news? I was given a real bad dose of my anxiety medication and have been struggling to write and process things for a couple months, so I apologize for the delay in this chapter. I hope the sincerity of the ending makes up for it. 
> 
> IM SO CURIOUS TO SEE WHO CAUGHT THE PHICHIT REVEAL!! I know he was in the character list but I'd like to know if anyone caught on <3
> 
> Thank you all so much for joining me on this journey and for all your lovely comments and kind words of encouragement and all the support. I am forever humbled by how genuinely nice everyone has been and I hope this ending is worth the wait.
> 
> The last "chapter" is an extra story from Victor's POV that is both going to be a introspection on his role in the story and also an excuse for me to gush over how much I love Yuuri Katsuki.
> 
> As always, you are welcome to contact me on my [tumblr](http://pilindiel.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who has commented and supported this story. I love you all from the bottom of my heart.


	10. The Merry-Go-Round of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Breaking your family's heart was the price you paid for rescuing your own.”  
> ― Sana Krasikov

Market Chipping is not, by any means, a  _ **bustling**_  city. Cold breezes roll off the mountains to the north, but the people are polite and inviting. Victor loves the rattle of the train, the little trolleys that jingle down Market Chipping's narrow streets, and the lovely smells wafting from stalls and bakeries alike.

It's warm, but it's also quiet; people keep to themselves and Victor prefers it that way. The rumors about his exploits may be exaggerated, but they reach even here - this lively town at the foot of the Wastes miles away from their origin – but aside from the occasional whisper, Market Chipping's inhabitants are delightfully unassuming.

Not that he has the heart to worry about it either way, but he'd rather not be disturbed.

There is truth in every rumor, however, and the most common ones are also the ones that hold the most weight:

_Victor Nikiforov's heart was stolen by a demon._

_Victor Nikiforov is the most powerful wizard in the world._

_Victor Nikiforov has everything, and feels nothing._

Victor gave his heart to a demon at the ripe age of eleven, just as everyone was making plans for the rest of his life. It was the catalyst for the freedom he so desperately craved – a boost to his magic he always wanted and the excuse to stray from the path everyone laid out for him. Juvenile and rebellious. Now, his castle wanders through the Wastes just out of site, hiding behind low hanging clouds clinging to the hilltops, and he can fill his lungs with unfettered mountain air, free of the pollution and corruption of the royal city.

He takes a deep breath, letting the clean, cool air fill his lungs, and pulls his colorful jacket more closely around his shoulders.

Spring may be here, but the winter lingers, rolling off the moors and the mountains in waves.

Still, there's something terribly charming about Market Chipping and its inhabitants. Perhaps it's their proximity to something as ancient and magical as the Wastes that keeps them so lively, or perhaps it's their incessantly vibrant celebrations, but Victor loves coming to this town whenever he can.

Everyone is always dressed like springtime, as if they're trying to stave off the winter chill: dresses as red as cherries and suits as green as summertime grass. Coats as purple as sunset and blues as deep as the ocean. Victor assumes they must spend a small fortune on dyes – he's never seen so much colour in one place.

Their hats, though. The hats are on a completely different level. In a town already so striking, Market Chipping's hats are the most amazing things Victor has ever seen.

At first, Victor believes they must have been made with magic. The designs were so intricate, so delicate, so  _ **divine**_  that no one could possibly create them without assistance. The colours popped as if they were caressed by the Gods themselves, touched with the purest of fingers to give them a vividness no mere human could emulate.

It's four in the afternoon when Victor finds out he is completely and utterly wrong.

Victor is walking along one of the many winding side-streets of the city when he hears a voice long committed to memory. It stops him, chills and delights him all at once, and Victor finds himself standing beneath an open second-story window, overlooking the train tracks.

For a moment, he wonders if he should go around the front of the building and try to track down the mysterious voice, but there's a timidness to it, a gentleness that only comes from absolute love and concentration, and Victor would rather not break something so delicate. Instead, Victor stretches his arms above his head and lets out a low, quiet hum as the bones in his shoulders pop and shift.

Transformation magic takes very little effort – a flick of his hand and his body morphs, shrinks and becomes pliable and soft. Long, gray and white fur coats his skin, glossy and soft, and when he yawns and stretches, his back arches with familiar feline finesse.

Victor is not overly fond of cats themselves; he had a dog growing up but, like everything, it was sacrificed for the life he now leads.

He reminds himself it was worth it –  _ **how could it not be?**_ – and ignores the churning of his stomach.

With a contented sigh, Victor takes an extra moment to make sure his tail is fluffed and lets the static between his fingers fade.

No, he doesn't like cats all that much, but turning into one provides stealth and freedom of movement, not to mention he gets endless coos from passersby, and if anything Victor loves attention.

With a delicate hop, Victor lands silently on the flower-box by the windowsill and peers within.

If he had a heart, it would be fluttering.

Inside is not a shadow or a memory marred with time and the perversion of magic but a living, breathing, beautiful man with a timid smile and gentle voice. His outfit is plain: a modest green shirt that looks just a tad too big on his narrow shoulders and dark trousers that disappear beneath his desk.

His eyes, though. The stranger's wide brown eyes are hidden behind thick rimmed glasses and a fringe of black hair, but nothing could conceal the vibrant light behind them, nor how his intelligent gaze dances from his wall of supplies to the needle in his lithe fingers, delicately and intricately making masterpiece after masterpiece.

Victor has no idea how long he sits on that windowsill, basking in the sun and watching the hatter work. Sometimes, the hatter pauses, looks around for a specific material on his workbench like a dousing rod, and  _ **oh**_ , the expression he makes when he finds the bauble or the sprig of a flower or ribbon he's looking for leaves Victor breathless and scrambling for words that haven't crossed his mind in years.

The hatter talks. Not to himself or to a companion like Victor had originally thought when he first heard his murmurings, but to his  _ **hats**_.

He talks mainly about his designs and plans for them; asks them what colours they think would look best, whether they want this flower or that, and though the hatter seems unaware, Victor can see the way his words float around the quaint little room, the way his gentle mutterings and kindness infuse into the fabric and accouterments and make them shine.

Victor trills politely, anything to capture that beautiful honey gaze, and that hatter looks up with a stunning flush to his cheeks, like he didn't even realized he had an audience.

Then he smiles, and Victor swears he has never seen anything so beautiful. Victor's tail swishes, excited, and the hatter reaches out a hand.

Victor is pulled in by his orbit and he gleefully rubs his face against the hatter's delicate fingers, overwhelmed with a feeling he can't quite put a finger on. It's a warmth that is all-encompassing, spreading from Victor's ears down to his feet, and it has nothing to do with the sun outside or the fur on his skin.

“Well, aren't you a pretty one?” the hatter coos, scratching behind Victor's ears and making him melt, “I haven't seen you around before. Do you like watching me work?”

Victor purrs emphatically, batting his head against the hatter's palm. The hatter laughs, delicate and delighted, and Victor is lost in how to describe it.

“Well good,” he exclaims, “I'm glad you – ”

“Yuuri?” a voice calls from within. The hatter – no,  _ **Yuuri**_  – turns and the golden sunlight reflects in his glasses. He says something Victor doesn't catch, and though Victor stands and trills inquisitively, Yuuri still walks out of the room, leaving Victor alone with his thoughts and an unfamiliar ache in his chest.

He wants to say he doesn't visit Yuuri everyday. He wants to say it happens by accident when he's picking up herbs and spices for his spells and just  _ **happens**_  to linger under Yuuri's window, listening to the way his happy, one-sided conversations twirl and dance around his work and Victor's chest, but Christophe's knowing look when he comes home hours later than he said leaves Victor's conviction wavering.

Still, he can't help how he scampers across the ornately decorated carpet of Yuuri's shop when he can, admiring the lime-green walls and deep purple curtains on his way to Yuuri's workbench in the back. There's something about the light in Yuuri's eyes, the timid little smile and his little greeting as Victor hops up onto his perch that keeps him coming back even when the world outside gears up for battle and turmoil.

The rumour niggles at the back of his mind in the middle of the night, a whisper of a thought.

_Victor Nikiforov has everything, and feels nothing._

Oh, if only that were true. It could keep his yearning at bay, could keep him firmly planted on the ground instead of wistfully thinking about a quiet town with its quiet shop and the quiet man who works there.

Victor still can't put his finger on what he feels. He's certain it must be important, this warmth that floods his veins when Yuuri catches him watching out of the corner of his eye and his lips twitch into a reflective little smile, but the word to describe it escapes Victor, like trying to hold moonlight in the palm of his hand.

Part of him thinks of what he should say when he meets Yuuri face-to-face for the first time. How the  _ **subject**_  should be brought up.

_I saw you for the first time when I was eleven and you got swallowed up by the ground,_  seemed a little...unrefined.

He agonizes over it – wondering how he could elaborate on the moment, how Yuuri's eyes were wide with tears but hard with conviction, how what he said still swirls in Victor's mind as he falls asleep. Victor is helpless, torn between wanting answers and staying in the dark, admiring the mystery.

Victor doesn't really get the chance to mull it over.

Market Chipping's main square is buzzing with activity that Friday: the swell of music and the wafting scent of confections greet Victor when he approaches but strangely, he finds no desire to transform back into a human today. Perhaps a younger Victor would have indulged in the food or the drink or the pleasurable company, but Victor is tired, weary, and instead he lounges and watches it all from a distance.

Two soldiers on patrol turn down the distant street but Victor pays them no mind – they're just another facet of the encroaching political unrest Victor would like to avoid as much as possible.

The click of sharp heels on the cobbles below rouses him from his haze and he finds his tail twitching excitedly despite himself.

It's Yuuri, dressed sharply in green and gray, and Victor yawns and stretches as he watches him wander down the street. Yuuri captures him with his gaze like he always does, that deep honey brown that leaves him breathless, and Yuuri bows his head with a smile as he rounds the corner.

Victor hops down once Yuuri is out of sight, fully intent on following him wherever he goes, when a low whistle forces Victor to pause. Victor's skin prickles, like electricity before lightening, and something clenches in his chest.

There's a nervous, forced laugh –  _ **Yuuri's**_  – and two other voices that immediately raise the hairs on the back of Victor's neck. Unease settles beneath Victor's skin and though he can't make out the words, their tones are not welcoming. Something hot and dangerous curls in Victor's gut, like a viper preparing to strike, and Victor's disguise melts away with each frantic step he takes.

The scene around the corner makes his blood boil. There are two soldiers – one with red hair and one with brown – shoes polished and uniforms immaculate, and they tower over Yuuri, who looks like a rabbit caught in a hunter's trap. Frantic and afraid.

Blood rushes through Victor's veins, hot and poisonous and protective, and Victor draws himself up to his full height as he approaches.

Yuuri steps back from his tormentors and Victor surges forward, tenderly cupping Yuuri's shoulder. It's the first time he's held him with his own hands, he realizes, and he hopes Yuuri interprets his smile correctly.

He wonders – hopes, really – that Yuuri can't feel the static and warmth that rolls through him when they touch.

“There you are, sweetheart,” Victor says, his voice deep and soothing. He looks down and Yuuri's eyes strike straight to something deep inside him, a stirring in his chest he hasn't felt in ages.

Victor hopes he doesn't sound as breathless as he feels. “I was looking everywhere for you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY DID YOU REMEMBER THERE WAS A CAT IN THE FIRST CHAPTER??? DIDN'T THINK THAT SHIT WOULD COME BACK HUH????  
> anyway -  
> I wish I could sit down and write a personal thank you letter to everyone who supported me.  
> Whether you commented, kudo'd, bookmarked, or let me rant to you about various chapter ideas or concepts or even offered to read and beta for me, I want to thank you from the very bottom of my heart.  
> I may have another possible? Side chapter thing like this one, but I will leave the chapter number at 10, for now. Thank you everyone, for joining me on this journey through my favorite movie with my favorite show.  
> I sincerely hope you all enjoyed.  
> Feel free to follow me on my [tumblr](http://pilindiel.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by this quote in episode 7:  
> "It’s not like you to leave the ice and find someone you want to protect, Victor. "  
> And man oh man could I think of nothing but this entire AU.
> 
> As of this moment this will only be a series of vignettes - I do not have the time to really sit down and write out as much as I'd like so this series may end up being quite short. But future updates will be uploaded both on here and my tumblr as the story progresses.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


End file.
